


Knowing

by cadkitten



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Anxiety, Asphyxiation, Bed-Wetting, Bisexual Male Character, Canon Character Death Discussion, Confessions, Depression, Dream Sex, Dry heaving, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Gen, Hallucinations, Hopeful Ending, Incontinence, Learning Healthy Coping Skills, Loss of Cognitive Function, Love Confessions, M/M, Medication, Multi, Nightmares, Other, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Pit Madness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Past Assault, Religion, Resurrection, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Urination, Violence, Vomiting, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-10-13 09:52:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 50,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17485925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadkitten/pseuds/cadkitten
Summary: Sometimes the past wants to eat him alive and sometimes it just sits there across from him and stares at him like it knows what he wants, as if it understands the betrayal of his body and his mind and forbids him normalized action. There's always one surefire thing in his life that chases the past back down his throat, buries it deep in his gut to wait another day, and if it burns him from the inside out, too? Well that's just life, isn’t it?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my NaNoWriMo fic for 2018, having now gone through the editing process. ♥  
> (The Tim/Ari part is the canon past from Robin.)
> 
> So, I got this idea sort of stuck in my mind while reading through Robin (90s). I stopped at the end of the issue where Uncle Vari basically tries to kick Tim's ass because they come home and he's on the couch with Ari and she's in this sheer nighty and robe having tried to seduce Tim, who had told her he wasn't ready to have sex and they ended up kissing in a really 'aww' sort of way and it just happens to be that part that her aunt and uncle walk in on and the worst is naturally assumed of Tim. 
> 
> I didn't get a chance to read again for about two weeks, so I didn't know if he got the snot beat out of him or not and this idea just percolated in my poor mind. Imagine being that young, just barely getting feelings for people, and you do _the right thing_ ™ since you're not ready and she's not really ready either and you turn her down and then you get the rap for something you didn't even want to do. It would have ripped me in two as a kid. Tim's canonically not in a good place anyway and has that self-destructive edge to him already. The tipping point would come far sooner if Vari had actually beaten him within an inch of his life and he'd had to let it happen to not out himself as Robin and thus Bruce as Batman. Tim knows how this goes and I fully believe he would have died to keep that secret back then. 
> 
> This is the train wreck of his psyche if that trauma began the cycle and he never got help.
> 
> Believe it or not, I never intended for it to be as dark as it became. 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING NOTICE: Before you even start this story, I need you to know there are loads of triggery things involved. There are tags above, but a brief rundown is as follows: Depression, Self-Harm (non-cutting variety), Intentional Vomiting (non ED, but could be triggery to ED sufferers), Suicidal Ideation, Severe reactions to sexual situations, Anxiety, Severe panic attacks
> 
> I swear this does have a good ending... somehow. ♥
> 
> Beta: sakura_ame

Tim is choking. His air is cut off and there's nothing he can do to bring oxygen back into his body. It's all he can feel. 

There are hands tight around his throat and he feels small, helpless. Somewhat distantly he knows he's Red Robin. That he's _been_ Robin. Tears prick behind his eyes and his heart flutters as life slowly begins to drain out of him. He should fight back. He should pull this man's fingers out of joint one a time – maybe half for the sick thrill of doing it to someone who deserves it and half for self-preservation. He knows he's supposed to pretend he can't do that.

Fear and adrenaline kick in and he _feels_ the black edges tug back from the peripherals of his vision. It's only a little bit, but he's got more time to decide what to do now. He schools his heartbeat like Bruce taught him. He claws at his attacker's hands like the schoolyard taught him. He feels flesh peeling back under his fingernails and he knows the statistics from those kind of samples in this city and how they're treated once logged into evidence. The guy will walk. It's not enough for the shit judicial system around here to do a damn thing.

Tim must solve this or lose this. 

The decision is his and yet... it isn't. He can't out himself for what he is and he can't risk Bruce's identity behind his own. It's not a hard leap from Timothy Drake is Robin to Bruce Wayne is Batman. One risks the other. It always has. It was the same for Dick, the same for Jason, and now it's the same for Tim. It is, after all, how he figured it all out himself in the beginning. Find the Robin, identify the Robin, and see the Batman for who he really is.

His hands shake and he feels dangerously close to pissing his pants. He tells himself it's not really fear. He tells himself he's not afraid to die. He tells himself if this is how it happens, then at least he wasn't alone in his own bathroom floor, laying on the cold tile and praying someone would help. At least someone will find him before the week's out this way. Or at least, he can hope.

He hears Ari screaming in the background, hears her Aunt pleading with Uncle Vari to put him down. Distantly the words come, beseeching that even if he has defiled Ari he isn't worth the prison time to kill.

Tim knows he's not worth that. He also wants to laugh. 

Instead, he makes a strangled choking sound. The idea of a man like Vari going to prison over this is laughable. Sure, Tim's a socialite, his father is well-known, and they're well to do. But this is Gotham, and Tim's not from _this_ neighborhood. Tim knows the statistics. He's analyzed them a hundred times since becoming Robin. He's tried to figure out where the weak links are, why there are so many holes in the judicial system, why justice just isn't served here. He's tried to fix it and he's failed and now he'll just be another number in the running tally on the computer screen when Bruce brings it up next.

He wonders for one fleeting second if Bruce will survive this one. After all, Bruce can't chalk it up to being his fault. He'll never know what Tim's trying to preserve; that he was trying to hide Batman and Robin. He'll simply think of Tim as another death in a world of many. He won't be worth the same agony as Jason Todd.

Bruce will live. Tim will not.

The adrenaline dies off and his world goes hazy. It feels like the end, like he can feel his very life draining from his body. Vari's grip grows tighter and Tim's hands fall to his sides. He feels something in his neck pop. Now he truly hopes that he dies here tonight. It'll be easier than being paralyzed if that feeling is what he thinks it is.

His vision goes black and all he hears is, "Touch her again and you die, kid."

But, isn't he already dead?

\---

Tim jerks awake, sucking air into his lungs in a way that's so hauntingly close to how he'd come to in Uncle Vari's living room all those years ago. He shakes and he wraps his arms around himself and it doesn't help. He stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom, flicking on the switch and bathing the entire room in too-bright light. His whole body feels like it's been through the wringer. He aches like he did that night, after Uncle Vari was done with him.

His arm hurts like it's been cut; it's only when a glance in the mirror that reminds him that he went five rounds with Killer Croc last night. The bandage is soaked with blood and he almost fears what he's done to himself in his sleep. His vision swims and he yanks open his medication drawer, knocks over half the bottles to get to the smallest one in the back row. Dumping out two little sky blue pills into his hand, he tosses them back dry. It tastes like metal and blood on his tongue and he feels the swell of bile in his throat telling him it's not a good idea. It's only by force that he fills the cup sitting next to tap and swallows every ounce of it down to push the pills on toward his stomach. 

It's by accident that he ends up sitting on the cold bathroom tiles and remembering that haunting feeling of not wanting to die alone in a place like this.

He shuts his eyes and focuses like Bruce taught him to. He pulls down the thirty ring circus in his mind and he begins eliminating. Every task that isn't important right now gets discarded into the 'later' bucket until he's down to the clinging remnants of this dream that he can't shake; down to his body's basic needs, and the dull aches that speak of the life he lives now.

The life he's lived since he met Bruce Wayne.

He stands up and sways a little, chalks it up to the medication, and carefully makes his way to the kitchen. His hands dance over the cabinets and the drawers, and he finds the scoop, the coffee tin, the filters, and the little plastic tongs to grasp the basket. His hands shake and his vision blurs. 

One scoop. Two scoops. Three, four, and five. He seals the plastic lid on the metal coffee canister and put it back. He rinses the scoop and puts it in the drawer. With unsteady fingers, he fills the coffee maker with water and mops up the spills on the countertop. A flick of the switch and his hands aren't shaking anymore. 

It's a minor comfort – a crutch perhaps – but it works nonetheless. The scent of strong coffee fills his apartment and touches his senses and the last scattered remnants of the dream begin to fade into background noise. When he closes his eyes, he sees the projects he's supposed to work on and not Uncle Vari's fist. He sees the statistics on sales he presented to the Wayne Enterprises board last week and not the running crime stats he stared at last night until his head hurt. He sees himself with his coffee and not Ari's tear-stained face. He hears the percolation of the coffee pot and not the hollow echoes of his own pleas of innocence, begging them to understand that _he'd turned her down_. That he _wasn't ready_.

There's one thing in this world Tim can say will always save him and the scent of it is filling his apartment. His coffee never ignores him, never tells him he's not worth it. He knows his coffee won't try to kill him. 

Or, at least, he doesn't think it will. He's not sure if he won't manage that on his own one day.

He fills his favorite mug to the brim and takes a scalding hot mouthful of the bitter liquid, holds it in his mouth and lets it burn all the way down to his stomach when he swallows. The shake in his fingers that had come back is washed away with the heat of the coffee and he pushes away from the counter. His fingers burn and his throat aches. 

He feels better. 

Tim slides onto his worn out couch and curls up in the center of it, mug balanced on his ankle. He snatches his tablet from the coffee table, logs in, and turns his brain toward his projects instead. If he can't forget, then he'll just ignore it. If he can't ignore it, he'll make it stop. And if he can't make it stop one day... he knows where that path ends and he avoids it as much as he avoids sleep.

He checks the clock. Three hours. He got three hours of sleep. It's better than most of last week and he finds himself thankful it was that much.

The coffee goes down like a searing lance and he doesn't even wince. It hasn't truly burned in years. Maybe it'll never burn again.


	2. Chapter 2

It's not like he doesn't understand his body or his own needs. It's that he can't deal with them. He wishes he could like his needs, that he could be like the majority of the planet and just be at ease with them existing or at least with having to deal with them. He knows he's part of the other percentage that can't cope with them for one reason or another and it drives him crazy. _Crazier_. Tim's willing to admit he's not entirely okay. He knows the diagnoses, he's seen the mental workup Bruce has on him. 

Maybe that makes it worse, knowing that Bruce knows some degree of his instability. He thinks at least Bruce doesn't know the cause or all of the symptoms. 

Tim's hidden something well enough, at least. 

He remembers being thirteen and having some of his first really bad incidents happen while he was on patrol. He remembers trying to grapple between buildings with an erection that rivaled the clock tower and he remembers his frustration at not being able to just will it away. He remembers fighting the panic back down his throat and pretending he wasn't one fragile push from losing his mind. He'd understood from a biological perspective that it wasn't the fault of his wandering thoughts or really his fault at all. It was hormones, horrible teenage hormones trying to betray him.

Knowing didn't help at all. He vividly recalls adrenaline starting to do the same thing to him. The anger and the pain and the rush of taking down any villain in range causing his pants to tighten. He remembers, too, the way that those silent moments in the cave afterward, the wind down, and the nothingness after _so much_ in the field left him frustrated and angry at himself. He recalls his shaking hands and his not quite caught breath. He remembers ice cold showers and excuses at every turn.

After that, he remembers the beginning edges of his insomnia. Clinically, he's certain no one would have diagnosed it as insomnia. Any rational healthcare professional would have taken one look at the reason for his sleepless nights and they'd have sighed, told him to stop holding himself back, and to _fix_ the problem.

Tim thinks himself lucky that no one ever tried to sit him down and force him to talk about his reasons for doing everything he could to keep himself exhausted enough that it stopped happening. He envisions how it would have felt to sit down and talk, probably in a steady impassionate tone, about what he'd experienced or how one little event had triggered a lifetime of issues.

Sometimes he sits in the dark and thinks about how it would be to feel normal. 

Normal people are able to enjoy their sexuality, assuming they held those sorts of passions to begin with. Normal people can listen to their peers joke about pussy and dick and sex and not want the world to open up and swallow them whole. It's never been embarrassment. It's never been rational, though he's learned fears rarely ever are. 

A fear of heights is driven only by the body's misrepresentation of all heights being bad for living. A fear of spiders is an irrational response of hearing that some could cause your skin to rot and fall off and expanding that to every spider someone meets. A fear of enclosed spaces spawns from the idea that one could be crushed or stuck within them despite nothing of the sort having happened in whatever tight space they've found themselves in. All of it boils down to the same sort of thing and this... this is no different. 

A fear of all things sexual due to one event in the past. Traumatic, sure, but not life-altering. Except that it has been. That one night has altered his life so completely and thoroughly that he thinks a different individual may have turned toward an entirely different lifestyle to take their feelings out on the one who caused it. 

Though, Tim thinks that perhaps he has chosen a lifestyle that would take it out on people _like_ Uncle Vari. Perhaps he's not so different after all.

Deep inside he knows he had the job before all of that. At the forefront of his mind, he doesn't care.

He takes in a deep breath in the wake of his thoughts and tries to rearrange them into something that has anything to do with the equations on the board in front of him. He's nineteen. He should have gotten over this already. This inability to focus, to wash away the dirtiness of his unclean past. He should be able to shake off these nagging remnants of his sexuality and cast them aside like he's done so many other things in his life. He's cast out the parts of himself that thought he couldn't possibly stretch like Grayson, the parts that informed him he'd never beat Bruce on the mat. Hell, he's even left behind the parts of himself that quietly whispered he could never _ever_ hack every three-letter agency in the world.

The things he cannot shake are emotional. They always have been and Tim supposes they always will be. His emotions are fraught with the tensions of his past and the future that looms so threateningly in his path. The now is filled with his awful thoughts and his spiraling dreams. 

The only piece of fairness he can find in this particular issue is that it's the only one based in the here and now. His depression is dipped in the sea of what happened in the past and what almost certainly will happen in the future. His anxiety pulls the strings of the things he's fucked up behind him and the things he will inevitably fuck up in front of him. The panic attacks that well in his throat, threaten to choke off his airways, that leave him paralyzed and shaking on his own bathroom floor are steeped in the horrors of Joker's clutches, of his rectifying dip in the pit courtesy one demented fucknut of an individual. Time only gives him the fear that it will all happen again, if only because of who he is, because he's never enough to make it stop, because he'll misstep once again and end up tied to some other villain's table as the lunch buffet for whatever sick plan someone else has for him. 

Tim tells no one when these things happen. He can't.

He bottles it all up inside and pretends he's perfectly fine. It's another night spent hacking, and he's okay. It's another day and evening that he simply forgot to sleep, and he'll be fine. It's nothing a scalding cup of coffee can't fix. It's nothing a nap he never takes can't heal. 

He hits the brick wall of seventy-two hours far too often for anyone's comfort, but most of the time they don't really know. Even when they do realize he's too tired, too far gone, too sloppy, not one of them has ever known that it's because he sat on his bathroom floor all night, rocking like a child who's seen one too many horror movies. Not one of them know it's because he's relived the moment his life changed yet again. They don't know that this time Uncle Vari killed him and that he watched it from outside his body like some perverse stranger to the room of his past. 

_One_ of them knows when it comes to the last vestiges of his ability to deal. 

When his breath chokes him and his tears run dry, when the shaking in his hands has stopped and his mind is hell bent on one final solution It's then that he reaches out for help. In some private little part of his mind Tim dreads the day Dick doesn't pick up the phone.

_He dreads the day he can no longer ignore what's happening to him._


	3. Chapter 3

There's a cute guy behind the counter at Gotham's Premier. Tim knows he's cute because he can't stop looking at him. Furtive glances from under the mess of his hair from where the wind outside has blown it into a disastrous disarray. It's not the first time he's been here - surely will not be the last. After all, they have the dark roast he prefers in the proper blend to add taste to the bitterness. 

Tim might just call it his favorite coffee shop.

He remembers the guy from last week and from nearly every day the month before. He idly meanders over the thoughts of his own schedule. Had he needed more coffee last month or had the guy simply clocked more hours during that time? The semester started in the meantime and he looks like he's probably college age - just barely - not that Tim's all that much further along himself. It could be that he's moved to part time for his courses or he's been shifted to another shift. Tim's pretty regular in the time of day he ends up in here, after all. 

It's busy and Tim _likes_ busy. It takes the focus off of him. No one looks twice at the disheveled guy in the corner that just ordered his third cup of coffee and is clutching a bag of coffee beans like it's some kind of lifeline. More so, no one looks at the guy who couldn't control himself this morning and ended up sobbing his way through an unintended orgasm in the shower. 

He knows his eyes are still red-rimmed, knows his hands are still trembling. He's more than aware of the fact that no one here will give him a second glance and that's exactly what Tim needs right now. 

He takes too big of a swallow from his cup of coffee; feels it scorch the roof of his mouth and then scald its path down his throat. He wonders if one day he'll do it too much and he won't feel anything anymore. He wonders if that's the day he starts microwaving his already steaming cups of coffee just to feel like something's under his control again. Distantly he realizes he's already planned this contingency to the bitter end and he knows that maybe that means this is worse than he lets himself believe. 

Tim ignores that nagging little voice of reason and shoves it down for another day, another time. Today is not the day that Tim can _deal_. 

He's not sure he ever will again.

He takes two more quick gulps and places the cup back onto the table, pushes himself up and slings his backpack over his shoulder. Still clutching the bag of coffee beans like it's worth millions, he gives one last furtive glance toward the barista - at the slim line of his hips, the clearly defined muscles under the regulation green of his shirt - and Tim's heart is instantly in his throat. 

He swallows it back down into place, pretends that's not the sting of bile in his throat, and pushes out into cool air. There's a shiver in his shoulders that has nothing to do with the cold front currently hitting Gotham. Tim tries not to think about what he spent his morning shower doing today and he joins the ever-moving flow of people on their way to start their days.

He makes it three blocks before the nausea in his stomach swells to an unbearable point and he stops, pressing his hand against it, pressing harder than is remotely necessary and closes his eyes, willing it to pass. It does. _Eventually._ It takes him ten breaths more than usual, but it passes just like it always does. He knows it's because he hasn’t eaten in probably twenty hours and just shoved three cups of coffee in on top of boiling stomach acid. 

A little whisper tells him it's because he's doing this intentionally. 

He tells himself he doesn't care.

His feet carry him with the flow, across the street, and down the block to the university. He stops at the iron gates and gazes up at the buildings looming up from the dreary Gotham sidewalks, at their false attempt to be some bright white beacon in an otherwise soot-ridden shithole of a city. He wonders who tried to make this place a symbol of hope and if they knew it was such a pointless endeavor. 

Perhaps it was just a statement of some kind. He makes a mental note to check and lets his feet carry him where he needs to go. It's not a path he's conscious of, not on so little sleep and no food, not with a mind full of blame and anger over what he did this morning, and certainly not while he's trying to work through three cases in the depths of his mind. 

He sits down in Civics, takes out his pen and paper, and stuffs his coffee beans deep in his backpack. Peripherally, he listens while the professor goes over the coursework. The front of his mind doesn't retain any of it, but he relies on the rest of his mind all the time in the field and he knows it'll give up its secrets when it has to. Be it a paper or a test. He's got this.

There's the nagging little thought that this is probably the _only_ thing he's got. 

Tim knows it's not wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

There's anger and betrayal running like fire in his veins. He leans heavily on the counter, his palms pressed flat and the distress he feels is written in every line of his face. There are tears prickling his eyes, the water line rising with every stunted blink he gives. His hands shake and his breath comes in short little gasps that don't quite fill his lungs. 

Tim implicitly understands that none of this helps the original problem, but his body keeps right on ignoring him, barreling toward the proverbial cliff of his sanity.

He knows where this leads; he's been there more often than not. He knows the cool press of the bathroom tiles beneath him and he finds that the ache in his tailbone is a familiar indication that he's just slid to the floor in the last few seconds without his body asking for his permission in the matter. His world tips and sways violently and it's only then that he remembers the little metal case in his left pocket. 

His fingers fumble to get it out, shake and rattle the contents until he gets the push button to operate and reveals the three little blue pills tucked neatly inside. One goes under his tongue and the bitter taste of hell assaults his senses, jolting him back from the edge of awareness. He despises taking his medication at all, but hates the way he's left without it even more. He hates the way the medication makes him feel - like he's swimming through the void - but he knows he wouldn't be alive without it. 

Sometimes he knows that sentiment is literal.

His head thumps back against the tub and the tears flood over, running hot tracks down his cheeks and neck only to soak into the soft navy fabric of his t-shirt. His arms wrap around his waist and he chokes on the remnants of his air, gags against the flood of his world trying to crush him, and he ignores the hesitant knock on the bathroom door and the stranger on the other side asking him if he's okay.

It's unconscious, the way he draws in on himself and closes his eyes, fighting to block out what just happened on the other side of the door. His saliva is thick and it threatens to choke him. His nose is stuffed and threatening to strangle him. His mind offers the horrifying sensation of Uncle Vari's fingers wrapped around his throat and his world is caving in and he only regards it as having been inevitable. 

Of course his body and mind wouldn't cooperate with his desperate desires. _Of course_ he'd end up on some Tinder app stranger's bathroom floor after having bolted from their couch where they'd been trying to make out. Of course the fragile two minutes of heaven that had preceded this particular mental break couldn't have lasted into twenty or thirty so he could _finish_ what he'd started. Of course his life would fall apart even in front of a complete stranger.

His limbs start to feel heavy and when he bothers to look up at the huge mirror over the sink, he can see that he's got that glassy-eyed look of someone that's higher than a kite. He hates this, too. The implication of what it makes him seem like he is. The judgement of strangers as to what's going on with him and how he's behaving. He presses his nose against his knees so he doesn't have to look at himself in the mirror and does his best to take in each steadying breath, one at a time. In. _Hold_. Out. It's familiar territory and it quiets the incessant circus of his mind into a dull roar.

He knows it won't work every time, but he's glad it does this once.

He pushes himself up off the floor and avoids looking in the mirror as he blows his nose, washes his hands and face, and makes sure his clothing is at least somewhat presentable. Turning off the light, he takes a deep breath, and shoves the pill caddy back in his pocket before unlatching the door.

The guy's standing across the hall, leaning on the wall, concern written all over his face. He opens his mouth and Tim just shakes his head, heads toward the living room. "I'm sorry. I get these panic attacks and... just... I should go." He shoves his feet into his shoes and doesn't bother tying the laces as he tugs on his coat and double-checks that his phone is in the pocket still. He hesitates and then pulls a crumpled twenty from his pocket, placing it on table by the door, glances back at the guy and gives him a sad little look. "My half of dinner since I basically just wasted your time. I'm sorry... more than you know."

He's gone before the guy can say a word, nearly bolts down the hallway and shoves himself - trembling - into the elevator, his hand shaking as he hits the button for the ground floor. Tim doesn't like confrontation, doesn't like admitting he's wrong. He especially doesn't like strangers knowing he has panic attacks at the drop of a damn hat, though he supposes it's better than the alternative of it being someone he _knows_.

Gotham's cold air smacks him in the face when the doors open and he shivers, grateful his own complex has the elevator on the inside instead of outside like this. 

He zips up his coat and keeps his head down as he walks, uncertain where his feet are taking him, knowing his reaction times are too slow if someone assaults him, just the same as he knows he doesn't really care.

A dozen or so blocks later and he finds himself in his safe haven, inside his little coffee shop and he finds himself face-to-face with the same cute barista once again. Swallowing down the instant reaction to it, he opens his mouth to order his coffee, but the guy just smiles and asks him, "Dark roast, black. Biggest size we've got, right?" Tim nods, grateful not to have to use his voice right now and when he tries to hand over his card, the barista just gently pushes his hand away and shakes his head. "On us tonight, you're in here so often. Surely we can afford one cup on the house."

Tim manages a very quiet, "Thank you," and takes his usual seat in the corner. There's no one else here, just him, the barista, and another employee in the back that he can hear washing dishes and it strikes Tim how very much unlike usual this is. How he cannot hide here today. 

In the same breath he realizes he's never hid if the guy knows his order like he does.

Tim looks up when the huge ceramic mug is placed on the table. He _knows_ the guy remembers he usually takes it to go and judging by the concerned look he's being given, he knows why it came in a mug this time, too. 

"If you need anything..." it's hesitant, gentle, and not at all pushy. Instead, it's open and welcoming and Tim just nods, something like relief flooding through him that he's not going to have to answer a barrage of _what's wrong_ questions right now. 

The barista leaves and the music comes on a minute later, a low smooth jazz that's soothing to his nerves and he grasps the cup in both hands, lets it burn into his fingers, lets it _hurt_ and when he closes his eyes, there are tears welling there that he hasn't shed, agony in his throat that he knows he can't swallow past. 

But he knows how to scald it out, knows how to force the issue, and when he lifts the cup to his lips and swallows down everything he can until he feels like he's about to strangle through the pain, he feels the shaking in his hands stop and he feels the clenching fist around his heart ease, and he _knows_ this isn't healthy. 

He just doesn't care.


	5. Chapter 5

It takes him nearly an hour to leave the coffee shop, two more cups boiling in his veins before he turns himself out onto the street, a twenty on the table for tip, and he feels like he can at least breathe now. Still, it feels like there's a hornet's nest in his gut and when the cold hits his lungs, he coughs like he has the croup. He knows it's because he's torn up his esophagus in his desperate bid to regain some amount of control over his situation; knows that these are his consequences. 

He listens to his feet on the sidewalk, uses the sound as a distraction to get him home. It's late by the time he slides his key into the lock on his apartment door, later still when he's finally settled on his bed, the remnants of a shower having washed off how filthy he feels for everything he did tonight. His skin is pink and he thinks of his insides as blood red with the heat they've endured. He's tired and it's work to keep his eyelids open, but he knows this place far too well to think he can sleep.

The edges of his vision hold people who aren't there, his senses trip with every air current in the house, informing him someone's watching him, that they're going to come and do him right. He sees a vision of himself, guts strewn across the floor of his apartment and when he's stared at it for five solid minutes he comes to the realization that he's not slept in long enough that he's hallucinating again. If he sleeps now he'll dream of Uncle Vari and his hands tight around his throat. If he sleeps now he'll think it's real all over again and he doesn't want to know where that will lead him in a state like this.

His phone's in his hand and his fingers are dialing Dick's number before he can stop himself and by the time he realizes what he's reaching out for help with, the phone's already rang twice and the clock on his bedside says it's after four in the morning. 

"Tim?" There's worry in Dick's voice and Tim can't blame him. He can't blame him because what else would someone think is happening at four in the morning? But he also can't blame him because he's _right_ to be worried. 

"Yeah..." he winces at the crack in his voice, at the half-strangled way his esophagus sounds like he's gone three rounds with a cactus down his throat and lost. He knows it's noticeable, but he doesn't think there's anything he can do about it. He knows he can't stop himself from doing it again and he knows he can't make the things causing it stop. Not any more than he can change his own past, change the things he's had to call Dick about before, and certainly not any more than he can change the disappointment that guy's probably feeling in having selected him on Tinder tonight out of all the options he probably had.

He flips Dick over to speaker phone and opens his Tinder app. He's halfway through thumbing out an apology when Dick speaks up again. 

"Hey, I'm here for you, you know that. Do you just need to hear me on the other end of the line or do you need a distraction?"

Tim hesitates and then keeps typing. He's not ready to answer the question and he knows Dick can hear him breathing, knows he'll wait him out. He sends the apology and then deletes his profile from the app and removes the whole thing from his phone. It's safer than the alternative: safer than trying again.

Leaning back against the headboard, he finally offers, "The old shit is back again." He knows Dick still doesn't know what he's referring to, but he's also aware that last time it got this bad it hadn't been long before Dick had been on the other end of the line talking him down instead of just trying to help with his presence. He knows Dick remembers that as vividly as he does.

He takes a deep breath and winces at how ragged it is. Tugging the covers up, he burrows himself under them, his face sticking out and his phone on the bed beside him where he can see the soft glow of it in the room. 

"Do you want to talk about it? It's completely up to you, no pressure."

Tim debates and then decides he doesn't want to share his failures with someone he looks up to. Really, he doesn't want to share them at all. He didn't want to share them with that guy and he certainly doesn't want them catalogued into the mind of someone he has to work beside in the field. He squeezes his eyes shut and fights down the clog in his throat once again. 

When he can breathe again, he whispers, "I can't. I can't let you know how pathetic I am."

His chest sparks with hurt, his veins run like they're filled with glass, his eyes betray him and he's crying again, his pillow damp beneath his cheek. 

"You're not pathetic, Tim. I know it feels that way to you, but I also know how hard you are on yourself. You're strong... so strong."

There's an undertone of _you can do this_ and he understands Dick's trying to talk him down from some imagined ledge. He doesn't know where Dick thinks he is, doesn't know if he's gotten up to go track his phone or if he's still in bed just like Tim is. He likes to think of it like that, that Dick trusts him not to throw himself off the highest Gotham rooftop if he's calling him like this. He shoves his face against the pillow and he can't breathe and it's better that way. He waits until his vision goes hazy before he pulls back and turns over onto his stomach, tucking his head down so the crown is pressed against the pillow and his forearms are all that's supporting his weight off his neck. He pushes and it feels like some kind of relief somewhere deep inside. His head feels like static and he thinks it feels an awful lot like drowning and that's okay.

There's rustling on the line and then Dick's soft whisper of, "Breathe for me, Tim."

He lifts his head and sucks in a breath of air and he wonders if Dick's watching him or if he just knows him that well. It doesn’t really matter either way to him. His privacy is contingent, and he knows that. He's known that since he was a teenager and his father took his door away. He's known that since the imagined slight he created against Ari and the fall he'd taken for something she'd wanted and he hadn't been ready for. He's known that since the day he joined up with Batman and learned just how little his privacy was valued there as well. 

What he does know is the things he _can_ hide. He remembers being fourteen and feeling like the world was caving in on him and he remembers passing off some of his more brutal attempts to make his world calm down as something some Gotham piece of trash did to him and more... he remembers it working. 

His privacy may not work, but his words always have.

He breathes because Dick asks him to. He follows his steady breaths because he doesn't want to let him down. Not today and not tomorrow.

Tim thinks that for now, that's going to have to be enough.


	6. Chapter 6

Tim isn't sure if this is a bad idea or if it's just the creep of fifteen hours sans coffee, but the drone of Bruce's voice telling him that he and Damian are going to be representing Wayne Enterprises on an overseas acquisitions venture makes him want to crawl _under_ his bed and pretend he just doesn't exist. Of course he doesn't let any of that shine through while actually talking with Bruce. He lets him hear false enthusiasm and see every little mannerism he's come to realize the others expect from him if he's actually wanting to do something. He can almost hear the pleasure in Bruce's voice by the time they hang up and he contemplates if maybe that part's worth it at least.

A glance at the clock shows he has three hours to get his shit together and get to the tarmac for their flight. He's thankful that at least it's a corporate jet and not a flight on mass transit. He's not entirely sure he could deal with that at the moment, especially not with Damian by his side. Granted, they're a long way from having been at one another's throats, but with how bad his emotions have gotten in the past few months, he's not sure he could deal with Damian crammed right up against his hip for six plus hours. 

Tim's falling apart, he knows he is.

It's easy work getting together a small suitcase with his necessary business attire and toiletries, his medications carefully labeled and whittled down to only the necessary doses plus three for _just in case_. He's always careful to pack a few extra, but not enough to lose the whole supply if someone gets overzealous. The caddy in his pocket gets attached with a sticky dot to the paperwork from his doctor stating they prescribed his medication and it has to be on his person at all points in time. His allergies are neatly listed right below it and the whole thing goes right back in his pocket. 

One set of dress shoes go in a mesh bag and his luggage is done. He does his hair up in a ponytail and realizes only belatedly he's basically packed like he's flying Delta or something instead of a WE jet. Not that it matters, he still has to get through security with the last update to Gotham Municipal. He sighs, only a tinge of disappointment in himself coming through as he shrugs on his heavy coat, stuffs his feet in his running shoes, and gathers up his laptop case, double-checking for power cables, thumb drives, and necessary access devices. Everything in order, he slips out the door and takes a deep breath of stale hallway air in some attempt to calm his nerves. 

It'll be fine. He can make it three days with Damian in a foreign country if it means making Bruce proud.

He's not sure if he's right.

\-------

Tim's not the first one to the tarmac. _Of course_ he's not. He's not Damian Wayne and he didn't get to skip the stupid line at security. He longs for the days of private airstrips and the lack of anyone from TSA really giving a flying shit what might be in his coffee. Coffee he had to drain in record time because he wasn't allowed to take it past security. He'd _watched_ Damian saunter through the side gate usually reserved for handicap access with a full thermos and he feels the jealousy coil in his gut over how he's the inferior son, even with all he's done for Wayne Enterprises. Even for the fact that Damian's here _as backup_ and Tim's the lead. 

By the time he's through security his nerves are on edge and he's grumpy as all get out. He buys inferior coffee on the other side and loads it with three packets of sugar just to make it drinkable, grabs a sandwich as an afterthought. Not because he wants it, but because he knows he'll catch hell if Damian figures out he hasn't been eating on a regular schedule again. For three days he must be on his best behavior and he damn well knows it.

By the time he's being escorted out onto the runway and up the metal staircase to their jet, he's anxious and annoyed and ready to snap. So, when Damian comes up behind him as he's putting away his luggage and asks, "Bit late aren't you?" it's all Tim can do not to beat every ounce of obnoxiousness the kid has left right out of him. Rather he bites his own tongue - literally - and forces the sharp taste of bile back down his throat at how inferior that statement makes him feel. 

He's not really late, he knows it. He checked his watch about thirty times between security and the door leading to the tarmac and he's still got almost twenty minutes before they're due to taxi out. Damian's just rubbing it in that he probably noticed him at security and that he doesn't have the celebrity status to bypass everything. Tim thinks about how _dangerous_ it is that they just let Damian through like that, that he could have been planning anything and they'd just let his status blind them to it. He thinks on how many scathing letters he can write to TSA and it lets him breathe a little better by the time he's done shoving his suitcase into the bin and latching it.

He takes his seat and puts his laptop case in the slot on the side of his seat built specifically for such business trip needs and buckles in, if only for something to do with his hands. He palms his coffee from the table in front of him and silently groans into it when Damian takes the seat across the glossy table. There's plenty more room on this flight and he has to choose to antagonize Tim for the entire flight. 

Tim's mind turns to a mantra of _get along, get along, get along_ and he takes a deep breath and then chugs half the cup of bitter acidic crap someone wanted to call coffee and shoves the paper cup in the cup holder on his right. Determined to ignore Damian, he unwraps his sandwich with great care and is about to take a bite when Damian sighs loudly across from him.

"That thing's tuna. You're going to hate yourself in a moment."

Damian doesn't know just how much Tim already hates himself, but Tim keeps that to himself as he stares down at the sandwich and debates if it's worth the fact that he _hates_ tuna to eat it just to prove Damian wrong of if he should admit he's a stupid dumbass that picked up the wrong sandwich, paid an absurd quantity of money for it, and hauled it all the way out here only to not eat anything at all for lunch. Yet again.

He sniffs it and sighs, puts it back down and wraps it back up before shoving it back in the plastic bag it came in and tossing it on the seat next to him. No lunch it is, then.

"How, exactly, does one pick up the wrong sandwich from those inferior shops anyway? Don't they label them?"

Tim grits his teeth through the urge to scream at Damian and possibly to climb across the table and strangle the kid with his own shirt. There's no way Damian knows he's already seething. He's not goading, he's only saying all the wrong things and that's hardly his fault. He reminds himself to breathe, reminds himself of Dick's voice whispering, "Breathe for me, Tim," and somehow it helps, if only marginally.

Once he's calm enough not to bite Damian's head off, he just reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose and offers, "Tired, okay?"

"Well, you had better become _un_ tired very quickly. Our contacts are picking us up from the airport. They insisted according to father." The statement is both incredibly Damian and specifically bizarre given Damian's usual penchant for something at least resembling correct English. That said, it doesn't keep Tim from wanting to die right where he's sitting. Just let the plane become engulfed in fire and let him burn. Nothing in the world prepped him for talking with them _today_. 

He wants to cry, but he just shoves it all down deep inside and snatches his coffee back up, draining the rest under the pretense of becoming _un_ tired, though he's really wishing it were a few degrees hotter and preferably far less acidic. 

He sits back and watches Damian unbuckle and get up, wandering toward the back of the plane. He hears banging around but doesn't think much of it until Damian's back and there's a plate of cheeses and crackers in front of him, a small bowl with various olives and pickled peppers beside it. Damian takes his seat again without a word and Tim isn't sure if he should be thankful or scared. He settles on simply eating it as quickly as he can without making himself sick.

He's mostly done by the time the pilot lets them know they're about to start their taxi down the runway and Damian plucks up the last few peppers and polishes them off in record time, putting the dishes on the seat next to him, tucking them slightly under the back cushion so they don't fall off in the floor, and then crosses his arms and regards Tim like he's grown a new head.

Tim manages a soft, "Thanks," before the jet jolts into motion and he settles back, closing his eyes and trying not to remember the number of flights that have gone wrong in his life. Instead he focuses on the ones that went fine. The ones where he and Dick joked the whole time, the ones where Jason actually went with them and wasn't the worst Grouchy Gus in the world. The one he took with his father after they decided to move and-

He cuts himself off that thought processes when it reminds him of the pain of leaving Ari, the pain of feeling like he was the reason they were moving away from Gotham, of losing Robin and his girlfriend and every friend he'd ever had. Even trying not to think of it, it still clogs his throat and he almost regrets eating anything at all. 

"Drake."

Damian's single spoken word pulls him from his mind and he swallows and opens his eyes to look at Damian. He sees nothing in his eyes, nothing telling him what the other is thinking, but he's grateful when he doesn't ask him what's wrong and instead asks, "Did father spring this on you, too?"

Tim sighs, eases in his chair and nods. "Yeah... last minute, you have three hours to be at the airport kind of crap. The usual."

"I believe he was supposed to go, but there are reports he has been working on that he will not speak to me about. I suspect we are his replacements."

The word stings. _Replacement_. It's all he's ever been. A replacement for Dick and Jason. A replacement for Bruce himself in Wayne Enterprises. A replacement kid in Bruce's home. He can't even be a _good_ replacement. 

The silence looms over them until Damian clears his throat. "Good thing we are both more than capable of bullshitting."

Good thing _indeed_.

Tim tries to focus then, tries to dredge up what he thinks this meeting may be about, and hopes that once they're in the air he can log into his work email and hopefully Bruce has been thoughtful enough to at least give them the briefing notes he'd have been using. But knowing Bruce they'll be winging it more than he wants to.

And if that isn't the story of his life, he doesn't know what is.


	7. Chapter 7

The offered car ride turns out to be an Uber that was already paid for. For that, Tim's eternally thankful. At least they didn't have to talk shop on something they still have so little intel about. Bruce sent an email, though it wasn't exactly descriptive, and he and Damian spent the better part of the flight trying to decipher what, exactly, they were supposed to be doing here. The best either of them could tell it was less about acquisitions and more about just meeting other investors and deciding on some nebulous overarching crap. Not that that was a lot to go on, but at least it was easy enough to bullshit so long as they were only supposed to be members and not the ones running the meeting in the morning.

It could have been worse, Tim considers. He could have ended up without any idea where they were supposed to be in the morning, but at least Bruce's calendar had been easily hackable and as it turned out - they _are_ his replacements. 

He sighs, turning away from the bathroom mirror and pushes back out into the shared bedroom, shuffling toward the bed, thick socks dragging on the floor, little static shocks following him across the room. He's beyond exhausted. In fact, he's pretty sure he hit exhausted a few days ago and just hasn't made up the deficit yet. Then again, he can never tell when it's his mental issues dragging him down or if it's just jetlag and the parade of crap that passes itself off as his brain. 

He flops on the bed and rolls to the center, tugging the covers with him until he's cocooned in the soft nest, only his head poking out. He hears Damian crawl into bed and he doesn't last long after that. Once it's dark, he can't quite keep his eyes open, and once they close, it's all darkness from there on out.

\------

His cute little barista is leaning over the counter, grinning at him. There's a light in his eyes that Tim doesn't want to truly believe exists, but he also _really_ hopes is there. It feels nice to be looked at like this; like he matters to someone. To one person in the universe he isn't a replacement, instead he's the first. The first customer this guy's cared about. The first person he's ever comped a drink for. The first person he's ever smiled at like this. 

The scene melts away as things are wont to do in a dream and Tim's in a room he doesn't know. The bed's soft beneath him and the barista is warm above him. His cock throbs and he feels the press of heat engulfing him, watches the barista's face as he sinks down on him. He's the first here, too. The first to partake of this gorgeous man, the first to make him sigh like this, the first to rock up into him like he'll die if he doesn't reach his very depths. 

Tim matters here, he matters to this guy, and he feels loved and wanted and there's no agony in his chest and no desire to bolt from the situation. It feels like eternity as he pushes up into him, again and again, and when he cums it's nothing short of _perfect_.

Tim jolts awake, his breath caught in his throat and his cock pulsing in his underwear. He can't even enjoy the orgasm before he's panicking, clawing at the covers, his breath lodged in his throat and fear stealing his soul right from between his ribs. He feels cracked open, exposed, feels like he's never going to be _right_ again and he only gets his feet on the floor before his gaze lands on Damian and he knows the stiffness to those shoulders, knows that type of breathing, and he knows just as much that the kid's awake. 

Which can only mean one thing: _he's humiliated himself_.

He's out of bed in an instant, choking back the remnants of a dinner Damian insisted he eat, praying he can find his stupid pills fast enough to calm himself down. He nearly trips over the doorframe going into the bathroom and he closes the door a little too hard. He drags his case off the counter with him, spilling things across the floor, and shoving through them blindly until he finds the familiar little metal tin. Another pill under his tongue and he holds back on gagging, swallows repeatedly to try to get everything to stay right where it is. He's shaking so hard he can barely sit upright and his breath sounds like he's gone ten rounds with Bane and lost. 

His vision whites out and he finds that the only thing he can feel in the last few seconds he has to think about it... is thankfulness that he's blacking out.

When he comes to his cheeks are wet and his throat feels like he gargled rocks and he wonders almost idly if he screamed through much of it. Sometimes he does, he's seen the footage and he's deleted it every time, treats it like shame he's shuffling off for another day. It's part of why he moves so often: he can't inflict himself on anyone for too long or they'll all hate him and the police start getting called and he has to explain his nightmares and the result usually isn't good for him making it out the other side intact. 

He pulls himself off the floor, gets rid of his clothing, and climbs into the shower, cranking it over as hot as it will go and stands under it until he feels like he's going to suffocate beneath the oppressive heat. Only then does he get out and wrap a towel around himself, kicking things out of his path on the way back to the bedroom. He crawls in bed with only the towel and hears Damian shift, hears the quiet, "Two hours 'til the alarm," and he just grunts in response, curls up and prays he doesn't betray himself again. Prays Damian won't bring this up and that he won't make Tim feel like he's losing what little mind he has left before they confront these people. 

He thinks Damian has enough of a brain not to, he's just not sure he deserves the courtesy.


	8. Chapter 8

It's too hot in here: sweltering, in fact. Tim feels like they tried to stuff all the heat that should be being piped to the rest of the building into this bleeding boardroom. The heater is on full blast, hard enough papers have had to be weighted down on the table not to go spiraling off into the floor. As the third person in the room takes off their suit jacket to reveal a pit-stained button up, Tim wonders again if it's some kind of tactic. 

He's sweating, but he's felt worse. Hell, his shower last night was worse, not to mention how it feels under the damn cowl after hours of taking down Gotham's worst. It'll be a cold day in hell - he tries not to chuckle at the irony of that statement - before he takes off his jacket. He watches Damian out of the corner of his eye and the kid looks just as calm as he does. He decides to assume it's a tactic and moves on to thinking about other things. 

The lone girl in the room fans herself with a sheaf of papers comprised of what they've been talking about. She took her flats off about an hour ago but that's as far as she's gone and Tim suspects the dress she's wearing is sleeveless and he knows corporate dress code is full of inconsistences with the fashion industry for women. Fashion says sleeveless dresses and blouses are pretty much all you're going to find for three quarters of the year but the industry tells women their bare arms cannot be seen or it's considered a violation. They're all stuck in yet another layer of clothing to cover their arms up even when it's ridiculously hot like right now. Tim imagines she's got as much practice at being uncomfortable as he and Damian do. 

He jots a note on his spare paper to look into changing at least Wayne Enterprises’ dress code to allow whatever the more reasonably sized sleeveless dresses strap thicknesses are and to amend it each year for present fashion standards. He turns the paper over so she doesn't see it.

Damian sighs loudly from the other end of the room and slaps down a thick folder of papers in the center of the table, flicking the cover open and gesturing at it. Everyone takes a packet and Tim eyeballs Damian over the top of it. If he's not mistaken this means he probably did keep Damian up last night and it also means he hacked into everyone else's computers to find out what was being discussed. _Or_ it means he lied. Tim tries not to think too hard about that.

Damian's supposed to be the backup and Tim's supposed to be the lead, but here they are. Damian's leading even with his shitty attitude about it and Tim's been silent for the past twenty minutes. He makes a mental note to give himself the shake down later and re-establish dominance over his own damn brain even if it's only for corporate bullshit.

Tim glances over the paper, flips the page and actually starts reading. Every issue outlined has a pretty good solution beneath it and every investment they'd needed to discuss has all the pros and cons listed out in bullet points. Tim starts to think perhaps they chose the wrong person to lead WE in Bruce's stead. 

He sucks it up long enough to calmly agree with what Damian has put forth, to add one footnote to an item halfway down page eight and says what he needs to for the others to feel like they aren't being railroaded into this. He takes notes on their input and he pays particular mind to the woman's opinion on one of the more controversial items on the list, making more extensive notes than on the others. 

Everyone starts packing up and Tim lets them know they'll get them the information by morning on how things have been edited and they can either reconvene - a round of half-stifled sighs goes around - or just finish up via email. Tim knows what he prefers and he thinks they all do as well.

He jots down another note under his one about the dress code to make a big deal of it publically when they do change it so maybe other companies will follow suit. Perhaps an article in Vanity Fair or something of that nature. Maybe he'll think bigger than that. 

He sets an alarm in his phone to remind him of the note and then packs his things away and stands up, skirting out the door just ahead of Damian and just before everyone else. 

They're out of the building and into the cab before Tim lets his shoulders slump, before he feels the tiny quantity of sleep, and when he asks for a stop at a coffee place, Damian overrides him without hesitation and levels his gaze on him. There aren't words, but he gets the idea that he's supposed to sleep and really... who is he to argue with a good plan?

Even if it means not doing what he needs to in order to make his mind a neatly ordered place again.

It's almost an hour to the hotel in the heart of the city's traffic and by the time they get there Tim's feeling light headed and more than a little queasy. All the same, he takes one of the offered sleeping pills Damian holds out and sheds his outer layer, falling into bed in his undershirt and boxers and huddles in his nest, waiting on it to kick in. 

When it does he only feels it for a few minutes before he drops off into the kind of drug induced haze that means he'll wake up in the exact same position he's in right now, everything cramped up, and too much of his time wasted. But he also knows Damian will murder him if he so much as tries to push through it and not sleep. 

Tim closes his eyes and he lets the darkness take him and this time it's an entirely different sort of thankful that he feels.


	9. Chapter 9

Tim wakes up to a bursting bladder and his body's way of dealing with that. He has a few fragile moments wherein he's so deeply embarrassed he can't even breathe before he convinces himself that Damian's too busy typing to notice if he's tenting his shorts like it's grade school and he's just figured out what hormones are. He pushes himself out of bed and keeps his back to him as much as he can as he shuffles off to the bathroom.

He hits the bathroom floor and his bare feet inform him it's freezing at about the same time his bladder reminds him why he's in this predicament to start with. There's a few seconds where he fears the worst as he's getting the door closed and then he's leaning over the porcelain basin and relieving himself and the relief is so sharp and quick that he sags against his forearm that's supporting him on the wall behind the toilet. His boxers pool on the floor between his feet and he goes for what feels like forever. Some part of him is absolutely certain he's at least five pounds lighter by the time he's done.

He flushes and pulls his boxers back into place before washing his hands and face and giving his teeth a quick pass with his brush. There's little point in fooling anyone that his breath doesn't stink after passing out like that. 

It's probably fifteen minutes before he comes back out and goes to retrieve his suit pants only to hear Damian cluck his tongue against his teeth. "Do not bother. I have ordered our dinner in, no one will see what you are wearing."

Tim sighs and chooses the pants he was wearing on the flight instead and then joins Damian at the table, running a hand through his hair as he stares blearily at the screen. He's still tired and it feels like it'll never wear off. One glance at the clock tells him he slept seven hours straight through and that's a first in a very long time. He swallows and there's cotton in his mouth. He makes a face and gets back up, heading to the coffee maker. 

"One cup."

Tim bristles, almost turns around to scream at Damian. He's not even trying to _hurt_ himself this time. Or at least he doesn't think he is.

The thought gives him pause and he ends up staring at his hands wondering when the tears started dripping from his eyes. He wonders when he started humiliating himself with every fluid in his damn body in such quick succession. 

He wonders when he lost touch with himself to the point that he can't regulate anymore.

He puts the little coffee pod into the slot on the coffee maker, fills the back with water from the tap beside it and shoves the mug under it a little harder than necessary. He blinks the rest of the tears out and hopes they haven't run down his face where he can't feel them and swipes them up from the counter like they were only spilled water. It brews fast enough he wonders if he's even gotten the distraction he so clearly needs from making his pain of choice. 

He knows he hasn't.

He sits down with his newly pilfered coffee and when it burns his tongue, he feels calmer and he realizes he doesn't even enjoy coffee anymore. At least not the way he once did. Now he uses it as a means to an end, a way to hurt himself, a way out of his own mind, and little else. He knows why he was so defensive of it. 

Tim knows it's not entirely healthy, but he also knows he's helpless to stop what he's doing at this point. Nothing else works. Nothing else drags him back kicking and screaming in quite the same way.

Okay, so that's a lie. But the one thing that does, he swore he'd never do again. 

He sits next to Damian and tries not to think too much about it. He stares at the screen until the words make sense and when they do, he realizes Damian has drafted up his changes for the Wayne Enterprise dress code. He can't decide if he's grateful or angry that his idea was taken away: that it's no longer his own. 

He takes another burning sip and decides it was never for him to start with and at least it's done.

It's ten minutes before he realizes it has his name at the top of the page. 

The angry creature he names jealousy roils in the pit of his stomach and he has to drink half the paper cup of coffee to calm it down after all its fight got taken away like with the four little words that form his name. 

There's a knock on the door and Tim focuses on the paper, on ensuring there's no mistakes or oversights and then comparing it to the current fashion standards for this year while Damian pays for their food and sets it up on the other half of the table. It's pizza, full of veggies and not a single piece of meat and Tim actually finds himself grateful for it. It's been weeks since he properly fed himself and Damian's fixed three things for him now - if this counts as fixing - that provide him the nutrients he needs to survive. 

He's halfway through his third slice before he realizes it's probably all on purpose. He's not exactly been all that subtle with his failings recently. It's likely the kid noticed and is trying to help in his own weird little way. He supposes it's better than Damian trying to talk to him. Better than the inevitable fight that would bring; better than laying his cards on the table to be judged. 

He finishes the slice and doesn't hesitate to take another and when it's water Damian puts in his hand instead of another cup of coffee, he accepts it without comment and without anguish. He's focused entirely on the documents open before them and ensuring they've tweaked them just enough to make everyone happy while still catering to their own agenda. It's corporate and it's stinking rotten, but it's better than ninety percent of the rest of corporate America and for that, Tim concedes... maybe it's not so bad.


	10. Chapter 10

They leave a day early and Tim only faintly regrets that the only thing they saw before leaving was a tiny museum three blocks from the airport. He supposes he would regret it more if he hadn't been grumpy at Damian for slipping him another sleeping pill and forcing him to waste most of his day in bed. 

As it turns out, it's for the best that they headed to the airport as quickly as they did. The lines are long and Damian isn't known here any more so than Tim is, so they both end up in the normal line. Even with their own jet it doesn't technically count as first class and so, here they stand. 

Tim's knee aches and he makes a mental note to check on it once they're back in Gotham. He vaguely remembers something happening a few months ago that might have had some lasting repercussions. 

They move forward in line and the thought slips from his mind like sand through a sieve. Ten paces, then twenty, and fifty before he switches his laptop case to the other shoulder and bites back an annoyed sigh. His mind is ramping up and his fingers dance against his thigh, tapping out an unknown beat, driving him mad before he can even hit the gates. He longs for something to make his stomach stop feeling sour. Even more so he longs to be home, for the familiar face of his barista and-

And he stoves up so quickly he knows he's about to have a very serious problem if something doesn't kick-start him out of it. He's frozen - it feels like legitimate paralysis - and he can't even suck in air until Damian's hand lands on his shoulder and _shoves_. He stumbles forward three steps and catches himself before crashing into the woman in front of him, though he still earns a dirty look from her, tossed over her shoulder in complete disdain. Tim turns on Damian ready to ream him, but the kid doesn't hide his worry very well today and he sees it under the annoyed exterior and the way he crosses his arms over his chest and puffs himself up as if to say, _try me_. 

Tim lets it go and turns around, tries to focus on breathing instead of on the hedging knot in his chest. He's going to have to change coffee places or he's going to have to try to figure out the guy's schedule to make sure he never runs into him again. His chest hurts and he rubs idly at it as they move forward in the line, a bit steadier than before. When he checks out why they're moving faster, he realizes there's another TSA agent shuffling people into a line beside the one he's in and he counts, realizing he and Damian are about to be separated and he just doesn't feel like dealing with that right now. He takes a step back into Damian's space as the girl approaches and turns toward him to make it a bit more obvious with body language that they're together. 

The girl pauses, huffs, and then shoos them both to the new line and they move up about twenty slots. Damian shoots him a questioning look, but Tim just ignores it and tries to focus on his shoes against the floor, on the sound of people talking around him, on anything but his own mind and what he has to do when he gets home.

This has to stop. Somewhere it just has to. The probability that it'll keep spiraling is just _insane_. It's also unfair. He makes an annoyed sound as he puts his stuff down to be scanned that has absolutely nothing to do with anything they're presently doing and everything to do with having to change his schedule around because of some stupid dream he didn't have enough control to keep from his mind. 

His chest is an ugly ball of anguish by the time he's through the scanners and when he's pulled for a _random_ check, he's not even surprised. His hands are shaking and he's verging on another panic attack and he just goes with them without question into their little back office where they have him strip and a man with latex gloves asks if he's allergic and then pats him down in grand detail when he says he's not. 

Tim has to turn on Red Robin to make the well of panic stop. It's too close for comfort and it's humiliating and he feels more exposed than he has in months. Even what happened in the hotel room with Damian didn't make him feel like this. He closes his eyes and tries not to cry. He clenches his fists and tells himself this isn't happening. He shuts down everything his skin is feeling and he knows this is going to come back to bite him later. He turns his mind to Damian instead.

Damian probably thinks this is funny. Damian's probably outside laughing it up over Tim getting fucking strip-searched. 

Tim fumes silently as all of his clothing and bags are pulled apart and he stands in the corner with only the gown they've given him to cover himself with while they finish searching his property. They try to make him turn on his computer and log in using the encrypted access card he'd brought and Tim turns them down, sighting the laws for Government privacy and protection of information. Wayne Enterprises conveniently works for the government in a variety of ways and when they make the phone call to ensure his employment and the validity of his claims, Lucius picks up and Tim can _hear_ the annoyance in his tone that they don't know who _Timothy Drake-Wayne_ is. Lucius gives them what for and they let Tim get dressed and allow him to leave.

He finds Damian outside and he finds surprise in the fact that Damian's absolutely _livid_. He almost expects it when Damian hisses, "They had no right!"

Tim realizes his hands have stilled and that he never spiraled into the panic attack he'd been about to have and he knows it's only his training that headed it off at the pass. His brain had registered it as a potential threat to _the mission_ and he'd crammed his actual feelings down into a deep dark crevice to deal with later. 

Distantly Tim hears Damian still ranting about how he'd tried to make them stop and they wouldn't believe him and then threatened to hold him for questioning if he didn't simmer down. Some small part of Tim feels gratified, but the other part just keeps telling him he's in for it later with this subverted panic attack. The next one will be worse for it, he's certain.

\----

Three hours later and he isn't wrong. He's holed up in the little bathroom on the jet and his lips are turning blue. He can't breathe and the damn pill isn't working. He's already wrenched off half his suit, left it strewn about the small cabin. He's already gagged himself stupid over the toilet, not a single thing coming up, and he's already had to talk himself out of rolling up his sleeves to claw at his arms until it feels better for the pure lack of anything else to do. 

There's no coffee on the plane and the hot water only comes out vaguely warm. His tools are gone and he's losing his mind. 

Damian bangs on the door and Tim actually yelps. He hears the sound as if someone else made it, hears the thin wail he creates like it's coming from someone else's throat and really he should be more surprised when the door busts inward and Damian hauls him out of the bathroom and back to their chairs. He's almost grateful they chose the side without the damn table this time when his ass hits the seat hard enough to hurt.

He's fumbling with his cufflinks before he can stop himself and it's only Damian's hand squeezing the _shit_ out of his jaw that breaks through to him and he realizes Damian's been talking to him this whole time and he hasn't heard a single thing past the rushing sound in his ears. Something gets shoved under his tongue and the taste isn't at all like Tim's usual pills and he shudders, gags on it a little, and then forcefully swallows a few times in some insane show of trust toward Damian's intentions. 

The world spirals out of control around him and Tim feels dizzy. He feels nauseous and desperate. He feels both alone and horribly overwhelmed by Damian's presence. He feels like screaming. 

He's not sure if he is.

By the time the world makes sense again, he's laying across both seats and he feels like he's been hit by a bus. He's still shaking and his entire face is wet. So are his clothes and he wonders what happened. He sends out some vague hope that he didn't piss on himself in the clutches of this demon that lives inside him.

Damian doesn't seem to notice and covers him with a blanket and then sits on the floor and puts his hand on top of Tim's and just stays there. He doesn't ask what's wrong and he doesn't try to talk at all and as Tim watches him, he wonders what this is. He wonders how obviously crazed he must be to shut down Damian's inherent joy in Tim's misery. 

He watches until Damian looks at him, until he sees the truth painted there, until he _knows_ Damian understands too much. Tears gather in his eyes and he can't hold them back. He lets them go and it feels like such incredible finality. 

It feels like failure.

Surely when they get home he's going to be tossed out on his ass for this. No more job, no more Red Robin, no more... anything. He can't have his coffee and he can't have any of this and if that's true, then what - exactly - does he have left?

He knows the answer and he knows it's _nothing_.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: severe self-harm issues in this chapter, very very big trigger warning. I mean, the whole fic basically is, but this one gets truly bad.

Tim doesn't remember how he got home. In fact, the last coherent thing he remembers is Damian sitting on the floor beside him, clutching his hand while he lost what little dignity he had left and broke down in tears he'd been utterly unable to stop. He thinks this is what rock bottom must feel like: showing himself as unworthy in front of his youngest sibling one day at a time. He's been shown up and washed out and if he's worthy of so much as the air he's breathing anymore, he can't truly understand why.

He picks himself up out of bed, takes a long scalding shower, and then stands naked in his kitchen, slowly rationing out his remaining bag of coffee from his beloved coffee shop. He can't show his face there ever again, can't possibly confront that particular demon head-on. Not in this shape and probably not in this century. 

He'll never see the place again.

It's another door in his life that he has to shut behind himself and he sees it for what it is: another blinding testament to his lack of self-control. There's a long line of such places in Tim's history, though none of them have ever been his favorite coffee shop. He pauses in scooping the coffee into baggies and thinks on the club he'd been frequenting in his late teens - he doesn't let himself dwell on the pretty girl at the door he'd taken a liking to - and then to the little sandwich shop where the owners had loved him to death and he'd had to stop going because it seemed every other day he kept running into one of his past Tinder failures. He couldn't take the probability that he'd be recognized and called out for his shit. For ever thinking he could ever be happy in someone else's bed.

Mentally, he rewinds the comment, takes off the part about being in someone else's bed and the statement makes more sense that way. 

_For thinking he could ever be happy_.

He swallows down the lump in his throat and mentally tacks up his coffee shop as the next in a row of disasters. He makes a promise to himself to stop having places he likes to go.

He's groggy and he distantly wonders if Damian blessedly knocked him out on the plane. Maybe he got bad enough with the bawling fit that Damian couldn't take it anymore. He isn't truly sure, though he doesn't feel like he's tranquilizer level of groggy, so probably not that far if Damian did. He sighs and puts on the first pot, stands there with the smell of his favorite coffee swelling up around him and he wants to cry. He wants to cry for the loss of what he's taking away from himself. He wants to cry for all the losses in his past. He wants to scream.

He doesn't. He doesn't cry and he doesn't scream and he doesn't move. He just stands there staring at the coffee pot as it pours dark brown bliss into the glass below and he thinks about drinking it straight from the pot, wonders if that would be too much damage, if he'd have to go to the hospital. 

He sits down on the floor instead and stares up at the ceiling, his heart aching and his mind reeling over all of his failures and he wonders what time he was supposed to be at school today. He wonders if he told anyone he was gone the past three days for work and he doesn't really think he did, though he can't say for sure. He's also not entirely sure what day of the week it is and really, he just wants to sit here on his kitchen floor and never move again. 

He wants to pick up the coffee pot and set it on his skin just to see if he can stand it. To see if he's strong enough in that at least. 

He doesn't move.

His hands are steady when he looks at them and he sees the world in a clarity he knows. He's been here before. He's been here just before he's found his way to the tallest building in Gotham and found some ability to call Dick before he tried to solve all his problems that way. He knows this feeling like he knows his own agony. He sits with it for a while and lets it stew. 

He thinks of all the things he needs to get in line. He needs to update his will to include Damian. That little stunt on the plane apparently meant quite a lot. He needs to make sure he still has that one life insurance plan that was formatted basically to give Gothamites a way out. He thinks on how many other plans don’t allow for that methodology of death and he thinks it's _shit_.

He gets up and ignores his coffee and instead sits down in front of his computer and logs into the online legal site he uses for his will and updates it to give Damian an equal share. He uses his signature pad to sign it and waits until he sees it's notarized before he gets up and goes and puts his clothing on. His choices are careful and he thinks his way through most of it. He uses the bathroom and he makes sure he smells good and then he sits down with his phone in his lap and he dials Dick's number. 

"Tim?" Dick sounds breathless, like he ran to get the phone... and he sounds worried. 

Tim closes his eyes and he hears himself speaking but he doesn't really feel like he's the one saying the words. "I'm there again. I'm ready." He knows Dick's heard those words before, he can almost feel the icy chill that he's settled across the phone by saying them. He _almost_ regrets putting this on Dick, but he squeezes his eyes tighter shut and he thinks of how Dick would be reacting if he were getting a call about Tim's death instead. He can envision that pain in a way that's so visceral he always ends up making this call instead of the other choice. He wonders if that will change one day.

He knows it will.

Dick's talking but Tim can't hear him. He can't hear anything over the way his mind is showing him his life. He sees it in clips, first the good parts and then all the ugly parts. He sees his father die in his arms. He sees a girl jump before he can stop her. He sees his fault in Connor's death and in so many others. He sees how he's been failing the family and how he's not even a genius anymore. He sees the test score from last month proving he's lost intelligence points in the past five years. He's dumber now than he used to be.

He knows who to blame for that. The room is empty and it's him.

He's not sure how long he's quiet, but he jerks out of it when the front door slams and Dick skids across his apartment, only narrowly avoiding crashing right into the couch as he collapses beside him and frames his face with his hands. He hears him for the first time since he called. 

"Did you take something? Tim... Tim! I need you to answer me!"

He breathes and he stares up into Dick's eyes and then he shakes his head. He hasn't. He wouldn't. That way is the painful way out of the world and it's never a sure thing. No, he has plans for when he does it and he'll never give them up to anyone. The most secret of secret plans. 

He feels Dick checking his arms and then pressing material against his thighs and he knows he's checking arteries. He lets him before he whispers, "I didn't do anything yet."

Dick doesn't relax, but he can see some of the tension ease, can see the grateful lines that form around his eyes and he accepts it when Dick settles and pulls him close, even allows himself to lean into it.

He feels like a rag doll. He feels worn out and used, like a toy that just needs to go in the trash. He can smell burnt coffee and he manages enough self-interest to regret that, but not much else. He wants relief, but he doesn't know how to find it. 

He wants this to end.

Dick sits with him for hours and Tim pretends like things could be okay. He pretends like this could be his life, that he could sit next to Dick and seek comfort when he needs it. He pretends he could tell Dick everything he's ever felt and that Dick would understand. 

He lets himself live in that paradise until he's forced to move by his body. He's in the bathroom too long and Dick comes in to kneel in front of him and frame his face in his hands and whisper to him that he's there, that it'll be okay. Dick doesn’t know what he's talking about, but it's nice to hear anyway.

He only leaves the bathroom because Dick forcibly helps him up, gets him re-dressed, and helps him wash his hands like he's a child. He's helpless and he's not sure it's ever been like this. It feels sort of like the paralysis from before but he's still mobile, just incapable of doing any of this for himself any longer. He sits back down beside Dick and less than an hour later Dick has Chinese food delivered. He only gets up long enough to pay for it and then he's back. He feeds Tim and Tim doesn't even have the wherewithal to regret making Dick do such a thing for him. He chews when he's told, swallows when he's told, and he passes out before Dick's done eating his own food.

\-----

He's in his bed again when he wakes up, but there's someone with him. At first he feels warm and content and like the world is a better place than it was yesterday, but it doesn't last. Fear clogs his throat that he's done something he'll regret. He stumbles out of bed and into the dresser like he doesn't spend his nights doing parkour or taking down the city's worst. He trips over his own rug and he goes down hard enough that the bed's other occupant wakes up and it's only then that he realizes it's Dick and that they're both still fully clothed.

The war in his mind settles to a dull throb and he sits on the floor, tears in his eyes, Dick's hand rubbing his back. 

Dick gets him through the morning and then shuffles him out of the house alongside him. They go to the university and Dick gets Tim's transcript from the main office and makes up some story about a virus Tim got from the overseas trip and how he's going to be out for a while. The lady at the desk shies back from both of them and willingly emails his professors. 

Tim doesn't move until he's guided back out of the office by Dick's hand on his back. They get back in the car only to stop a few blocks over and Tim stares out the window in horror at his favorite coffee shop. When Dick gets out and tries to coax him out, Tim just starts crying. He can't find the words to tell Dick why he can't ever go in again, he just sits there and silently cries, and Dick gets back in and they end up going through the drive-thru at some donut shop instead. 

They're at the manor before Tim can figure out where they're going and that doesn't make sense to his brain because it's a long drive from his place to the manor. He also doesn't want to see Bruce like this, doesn't want to be benched forever because he's unworthy. 

He gets out of the car and he stands there staring up at the manor's array of far too many windows and he accepts his fate. He's built this house of cards, it's only right it be blown over by his own imperfections. 

Alfred takes over guiding him the moment he steps inside and he wonders how much he missed that Dick had time to tell them all what happened. He thinks he should be mad that his shit is now a public affair and then he wonders if maybe it's Damian who's shown the world who he really is. 

Regret feels like an empty hole in his stomach and he only stares at the table when he's guided to it. He sits when Alfred puts a bowl of hot soup in front of him and he eats it if only for the fact that it's far too hot and it makes him feel _something_. 

Sweet agony curls its fingers around his tongue and his throat and his stomach. He feels it burn all the way down and he resists picking it up to gulp it down, instead shoveling it in like a heathen. He only accepts the second one because his tongue isn't numb to it yet, not because he's hungry. 

When he's done there's a cup of coffee placed down in front of him and the sound of a chair being drawn out. He hears a ragged breath and he inherently understands this isn't Dick and it isn't Bruce. He turns his head just enough to see Damian from the corner of his eye and the kid looks like he's been through hell. 

"Can I ask you something and receive an honest answer? Please?"

Damian sounds so desperate and Tim doesn't know what to think of that. He only nods and waits.

"I did this, didn't I? I took away your coping mechanism not realizing what I was doing and forced you out of your others when I meant well. I just... I did all of this, didn't I?" He looks like he's going to burst into tears and for the first time in a very long time, Tim feels something else besides self-loathing or apathy or fear. He feels sadness for another. 

His hand moves to rest on top of Damian's and he stares at the window across the room to give him the privacy he deserves. "You were only looking out for me."

He hears the hitch in Damian's breathing and he knows what it means. He doesn't look.

"This isn't on you."

He's not sure that's entirely true. Damian _did_ pull his support struts out from under him and just expected him to stand up without them, but the kid didn't know what he was doing. He's not certain one can be at fault for something they didn't set out to do. Judge and jury call it a lesser sentence when it wasn't premeditated, when it was truly an accident, when the person's punishing themselves enough for everyone already.

He wraps his free hand around the coffee cup and it's so hot it actually _hurts_. He closes his eyes and finds relief in it. His hand throbs it burns so much but he doesn't pull away from it and he doesn't pull away from Damian's hand either. 

"You didn't know."

Damian's hand turns under his own and their fingers link and Tim barely hears it when Damian whispers, "I'll ask next time. I'll never assume I know what's better for you again. I didn't... I don't..." he fades off and Tim squeezes his hand as hard as he can. Damian returns the action and something else eases inside Tim with the spark of pain. He squeezes harder and Damian does as well and Tim lets go of the coffee cup, staring at their hands. His heart's hammering in his chest but it's not panic and it's not arousal and he thinks this is something different. He offers up his other hand on a whim and Damian takes it. Tim doesn't expect the gentle caress he receives instead of the blinding pain of the other hand. He doesn't expect it, but he doesn't dislike it either. 

He meets Damian's eyes and it takes everything he has to offer up the truth, but he does it anyway. "This helps." He sees the relief in Damian's face and he treasures it. 

Maybe the kid's not so bad after all.


	12. Chapter 12

He's still in the manor. At some point someone brought some of his stuff around so he's not languishing in the same outfit Dick dressed him in the morning they left his place. His phone and tablet are on the desk in his old room after his shower on the second morning and by the third the soaps have been changed out in the bathroom he's using to the ones he prefers. He's not entirely sure how he feels about it - it seems so final, like he's not allowed to live on his own anymore or something - but he also understands that maybe he shouldn't be trusted enough to go home just yet. 

He sits and catches up on what homework he can on a tablet and a phone and resists going down to the cave. Bruce is apparently off-planet on some mission and Tim thanks everything in the world that that's the case. He doesn't relish when Bruce comes back and finds out his adopted son has become suicidal again. He still remembers the first time it happened when he was still living there and how he tried to tell Bruce and basically got told to shake it off, that it'd be better in the morning. At the time he'd thought Bruce was being an asshole - and maybe he was - but it'd come to his attention over the years that Bruce's own mental map was a damn wreck and that he probably _could_ just force himself to believe something would be better in the morning even if it wasn't. 

It still sits like ice with him sometimes, whispering that the only father figure he has left doesn't give a shit if he's ready to end it all or not. Then he reminds himself that feeling that way is probably what people mean when they say suicidal people are seeking attention. That thought puts acid in his stomach and makes him regret reaching out to anyone. 

Tim spends the rest of the day in the lounge, his head resting on the awkward angle of the sofa, his feet dangling off the edge, his eyes open and unseeing. He blinks because he has to, breathes because when he stops his body overrides him at some point, exists because he doesn't have the energy to enact anything to solve the very particular issue of being alive.

He only sits up when Damian comes home and sits too close, only feels something of note when Damian takes his hand and squeezes too hard. It takes him a minute to return the gesture and when he does, he can breathe because he wants to again. It's not much, but it's a lot from where he's sitting. It's a lifeline and it's somehow strung itself between him and Damian.

This time it's Damian who helps him through his evening. He doesn't do things for him like Dick. Instead, he patiently hands Tim things and instructs him to do them in a very patient voice. "Get dressed for bed," and, "Use the bathroom," and, "Brush your teeth." Tim thinks it's sweet in its own way.

Thinking being bossed around by Damian is sweet should be hilarious. Yet, it isn't.

He climbs in bed and Damian curls up in the chair beside the bed and yawns. Tim mentions patrol and Damian tells him that he's taken the night off. 

So Damian's babysitting him then. Tim isn't sure how to take that.

When he wakes in the morning Damian's still there, half falling off the chair, his hair in disarray and his face slack with sleep. He watches him for nearly an hour before getting himself out of bed and taking his shower. He doesn't turn it to full heat this time, doesn't come out with his skin bright pink. He finds a new medication on the counter with his name on it and a note tucked under it from Alfred, explaining they'd talked with 'the family physician' and that this might help. He takes one to give it a chance. He'll give it two weeks and if it fucks him up like the last one he'll throw it out and tell no one. If it works, then great.

He thinks to himself it probably won't work, but he appreciates the effort anyway. 

He wakes Damian and then spends the day helping Alfred around the house. He puts himself to bed and wakes himself up in the morning and then he packs his things and leaves a note on the bed thanking them and letting them know he's just going to go back home to get caught up for class. 

He takes an Uber home and he throws away the coffee from the shop and cleans up his apartment before he settles on the couch to get caught up. When he signs in, his assignments have all been turned in and when he traces it, he finds Damian's computer at the end of the loop. He sighs and accepts it, takes note of the reading and does that part on his own, at least. It takes him a day to catch up and by the time he falls asleep he barely realizes he's been without his coffee for four whole days.

It's a distant thought on the edge of sleep and he dismisses it in favor of sleeping. He'll decide what it means later.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI for anyone keeping track of the # of chapters, there were 41 listed, but apparently I had placed a few blanks in there as "possible" chapters LOL. There's 39 chapters. No removals of pieces from the original, I promise!

Tim lasts about a week before the coffee comes back into his life. He's still taking the meds and while he can't say if they're working or not, he hasn't had an adverse reaction to them yet, so he keeps taking them just hoping maybe they're doing something subtle somewhere. Even if it keeps him from the ledge it's something and something is more than nothing.

He reminds himself of that with a post-it note on his mirror. _Something is more than nothing._ He reads it a dozen times a day to remind himself.

He finds himself in the kitchen brewing the remnants of some shitty can of coffee he's had stuffed in the back of the cabinet and ignored for at least a year. He recalls hating the brew. He also knows he cannot possibly sleep if he wants to get his work done _and_ get his ass back out in the field.

He downs three cups while he's finishing his Civics essay, chokes back another before he pulls on his Red Robin suit and slips out into the night.

His hands shake and he realizes almost belatedly that perhaps going from nothing to four cups in under an hour is not advisable for the human body. He ignores it and pushes forward. It's something he should have realized, but not something he can do anything about now that it's in him. 

He hears the distant whisper in his mind that tells him he _used to be_ a genius. 

He takes down the first two thugs like they're nothing, but by the third fight he's breaking up in some back alley he feels sluggish, like his timing is all wrong and he can feel the choking hand of self-blame telling him he spent too long out of the field, too long not training, that he's off his game and it's his fault for being a messed up moron. 

He listens to the demons whisper in his ear and he manages to get the guy on the ground, ties him up, calls it in, and he leaves the streets. He's reckless but he's not that far gone tonight. 

He goes home and he trains until the morning light is leaking under his window shades, until his body aches and he feels like lead. Only then does he strip, shower, and fall into the nest of his own bed.

It's with surprise that he wakes up in the morning and finds himself having slept. He takes stock of his injuries and then takes note of the time and has to rush to get to school on time. He buys a can of Red Bull from the vending machine outside his first class and it kicks in halfway through the lecture and he wonders why he ever bothered with coffee for the caffeine. He knows all the other reasons, but he doesn't think of them right then, not when he's not caught up in their sticky web at the moment.

He makes it through the day and trains the entire night until he passes out on his own couch. He falls asleep thinking about how he's gotten sloppy and things are worse than they once were and how he needs to up his game and when sleep comes it's not truly sleep so much as it is exhaustion.

By the time he ends up back out in Gotham's night, it's another week and he's trained himself near to death. He aches all the time and he wishes he had Bruce's equipment again and not just the gym in his building where he can't exactly be obvious about what he's training for. He's amped up on Red Bull _and_ coffee and there was maybe a little part of him that wanted the burning heat of it going down his throat. He accepts it for what it is and moves on.

He gets home an hour before sunrise and spends it on his homework. The hour bleeds into four and he pushes the last hour before showering and grabbing another Red Bull on his way to class. The back of his mind whispers that the cycle has started again and he whispers back that this is the life of a vigilante. He tells the voice that he chose this life and he's not about to give it up just because his body can't fall in line.

When he buys a coffee from the convenience store on the way home and nearly pours it down his own throat just outside the store, he tells himself it's just once. Once and he'll stop.

He knows he's lying.


	14. Chapter 14

He's heading into hour sixty of no sleep when Jason finds him leaping between rooftops without his line, his veins mostly Red Bull and maybe a little coffee. He's fairly certain he gave up on blood somewhere around about twenty-four hours ago. He's not entirely sure how accurate that statement is.

Jason doesn't ask him questions, doesn't even ask if he can join him, he just shows up and brute forces his way in like he always does. He's there and Tim's not about to start a fight about it. After all, they've become something like companionable as of late. Or at least they were a few months ago before Tim stopped calling. He knows why he stopped calling. 

Jason doesn't.

Tim ticks it up on the mental chalkboard of shit he's screwed up and heaves a sigh as he makes his next jump, reels backwards for half a second before catching his balance, and then hops down onto the rooftop, content with the jump despite the close call. Either he ends up splattered on the sidewalk like some kind of mercy or he doesn't. It's not that the thoughts of dying have come back, but rather that he just doesn't give a shit. 

He thinks maybe it's better this way. He's not likely to engage on purpose, but if it happens, he's not going to argue about it. He wonders if that's how he should feel, if maybe it's how most people feel. 

He knows it isn't.

He and Jason don't talk, they don't even make it obvious that they're making the same circuit except that Tim knows Jason's behind him. He finishes his route without much in the way of incidents and he picks his way back to his apartment. What he doesn't expect is Jason slipping in behind him and helping him lock the place back up. Tim leans on the counter and watches him, his head tilted and genuine curiosity flooding him. Nothing is ever certain in his life, but he had been fairly sure Jason wouldn't just stop in for... whatever this is without preamble. Probably _a lot_ of preamble.

Jason circles the counter, puts his helmet down, tosses his gloves off to the side and peels his mask off. He glances around, issues a soft, "Christ," and picks up Tim's coffee pot to sniff it. He pulls a disgusted face and dumps the contents out in the sink. Tim knows it was mostly Red Bull. He morns the loss, but understands it's an acquired taste, if he can really even call it a _taste_ and not just some absurd necessity.

He watches Jason clean up his counter of all the Red Bull cans and coffee grounds and he doesn't question it when Jason starts putting together a meal. He thinks Jason should probably wash his hands, but he doesn't say anything. After all, who is he to judge poor hygiene when he hasn't showered in two days? He wrinkles his nose at the thought and disappears into his bathroom, closing Jason out without comment and strips down. 

It's almost a relief to get under the cool water. It warms up and he resists turning the heat up. He thinks about the note on his mirror and he closes his eyes and clasps his hands together and squeezes as tight as he can. He imagines Damian's there to help him, imagines how heartbroken the kid's face had looked and he makes a mental note to check on him in the morning. Or maybe when he gets out of the shower since his mind has been shit since he stopped sleeping again.

As he washes, Tim's mind meanders over some of the questions he knows he missed on that IQ test. He answers them with ease now that it's just him and the water and he frowns. Why couldn't he have done it then? Why couldn't he have kept his status? Is it because he knows what the questions are now and he's had time to think on them? Geniuses don't think on the answers like that, they just know them. 

He scolds himself and washes a little harder than necessary.

His eyes sting when he washes his hair and he forces himself not to wash his face until he's done, stands there with water hitting him straight in the face, unable to breathe, unable to do anything other than exist in the forceful spray. His body forces the inhale and he sputters, coughs as he stumbles back from the spray and the anguish inside him takes hold once again. He wrenches the water off too forcefully and steps out without a towel, avoids the floor mat and instead navigates the slick floor while he's dripping wet, tracks water everywhere and then snatches the towel up only because there's a tentative knock on the door.

He wraps himself in it and yanks it open, stares at Jason for a moment and tries to blink himself back into something presentable. He puts on the false smile he used to use for the insipid galas Bruce used to force him to go to and he watches the way Jason tries to hide his flinch. He lets the smile fall and just skirts past him into his bedroom where he yanks on a pair of sweats and a baggy t-shirt that he's nearly swimming in it's so huge. He ties his wet hair back and stands there with his eyes closed just waiting on the inevitable knock on his bedroom door and the barrage of questions asking him what the fuck is wrong with him. 

Neither comes and after five minutes Tim gives up and opens the door.

Jason's sitting on the counter - literally on the damn counter - and Tim just stares at him as he stirs a mug of what is clearly mostly milk and a little coffee, their gazes locked. Tim sighs, makes his way to the coffee maker and pours himself a cup. He just holds the hot cup between his hands and stares at the wall until Jason's voice breaks him out of it.

"Little reckless out there tonight."

Tim bites the insides of his cheeks, releases them and tips his head back to stare at the ceiling. "Less so than I wanted to be." He doesn't know what makes him share how he really feels, but it just seems right to say it. Maybe he's just done hiding from everyone around him.

Jason hums softly, puts down his coffee mug and plucks Tim's from his grip, putting it down somewhere behind him as well. He guides Tim between his knees and keeps hold of his hand. "Look... I've been there. Where you are. When I came back," his voice gains a rough quality and Tim knows that sound like he knows air, "it fucked me up more than I ever let you guys know."

He doesn't elaborate, but Tim gets the idea anyway, he nods and starts to move away from Jason, to give him space, but Jason's knees dig into his sides and he finds he can't actually move. Behind that revelation, he finds he doesn't really _want_ to anyway.

"I didn't reach out for help when I needed it and I regret that now." He pauses and gives Tim a lopsided - albeit forced - smile. "You're one step ahead of me there at least." He hesitates and Tim thinks he's maybe not going to say anything else, but then, "If you need anything, I'm here. I mean it. Help with class or in the field or just someone to make you eat... any of it. I know Dick's got you on the listening angle, but if he's ever not around, hit me up. Hundred percent, okay?"

Tim wants to tell him to stay, wants to beg him to just move in and make his life a little more worth living, but he doesn’t open his mouth. Instead, he just bows his head and swallows down the needy words. They feel like lead in his stomach.

Former Robins don't need help with simple things like cleaning their shit up or getting food into their bodies. That's basic level crap and he should be able to do it on his own. 

He hears Jason speaking but he doesn't hear the words anymore. 

He wonders when his life slipped through his fingers. He wonders if he'll ever stop spiraling out of control.

He knows he won't.


	15. Chapter 15

Jason's there in the morning and Tim's not really sure how he feels about that. He's working on two hours of sleep and he feels like he's missing some pretty vital pieces of last night. There are giant yawning fields of nothing in his mind's eye and he wishes he'd stop losing time like this. Inherently he knows it's because he keeps staying awake for so long, running on caffeine and an arbitrary need to keep plodding forward. It's just that sometimes he's not sure why he feels like forward is the direction to go in.

He supposes it's human instinct to try to keep going. He wonders if it's also human instinct to just want to sit down on the floor and never get back up again.

He tries it, if only because he has no drive to do anything else with himself today. He knows he has class, knows he needs to work on those three open cases strewn all over his coffee table, knows he needs to present himself to Jason as a capable adult and not some two-bit replacement that can't hold his shit together.

The truth is, he _can't_ hold his shit together.

The thought leaves him sitting on the floor in his kitchen, tucked behind the island, one foot propped against the opposing cabinets, his hands hanging limply by his sides. He's too tired to exist. Too tired to give a fucking shit that he's sitting on his floor and wasting away.

He closes his eyes, but sleep doesn't come. He opens them and gives up.

He hadn't been fully certain that he could give up any more actively than he already had, but now he knows he can. 

He gives up on all basic function and lets his body breathe for him, lets it beat his heart because he never did master stopping it the way Bruce did. His mind contemplates if one could stop it and just let it be eternal. 

His body just keeps right on existing.

Jason finds him hours later and Tim distantly comprehends that it takes him several tries before Tim really reacts to him. When he does, it's only because his stomach is boiling so furiously that he catches on that he didn't eat what Jason made last night, hasn't eaten since... he can't remember. Acid burns up his throat and he lets it. He tracks Jason's finger and debates leaning over to vomit on the cold tiles to his left. 

He doesn't.

He doesn't talk, isn't sure if he can without throwing up. He sits there with the burn in his esophagus and tells himself he deserves this for sitting in his floor listing the day away like it doesn't matter. He deserves the pain for skipping class, for just giving up and sitting here and doing nothing all day. His eyes flick to the microwave, it's blinking from the last time the power went out months ago. He contemplates the idea that if he cared a little more it would probably be set. 

He wonders if he left it because he thought he'd be dead before it mattered again.

Something warm settles on his legs and he looks down, blinks at the plate of scrambled eggs and startles slightly when Jason holds out a glass of water and opens his palm to reveal the pill Tim hasn't taken today. Jason doesn't talk to him and he's thankful for that at least. He takes the pill and the glass and swallows it down if only because he doesn't want to disappoint the man who made him perfectly fluffy, non-burned eggs.

He eats the eggs and they taste like nothing. He knows they probably taste wonderful, but he can't bring his taste buds to actually work for him.

The stomach acid stops burning his throat by the time he's done and he just eats the dry piece of toast Jason adds to his plate without comment. He doesn't get up and Jason doesn't make him. He doesn't talk and Jason doesn't seem to mind.

The day moves on and Tim... doesn't.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's sort of graphic... says the emetophobic person who wrote this. -winces-  
> I'm not gonna lie. Even re-reading this chapter on the edit, I got halfway through it and started crying. The pain I push out and represent here is real. Palpable. Use caution reading this chapter.

Tim isn't sure when it happened or really why, but every time he's at the end of a two or three day streak of too much Red Bull and too many cups of coffee, when his mind is most fragile and his body is failing him, he always finds Jason there. It's as if the other can sense when he needs him and when he'd only lash out at the help. He thinks to himself that perhaps Jason knows this just as intimately as the rest of it. He lets Jason see when his body fails him unlike he's ever been willing to do with the others. 

He still recalls Damian's grasp on his hand - he thinks about how he still hasn't called the kid, he means to - he will eventually - and he thinks about how Dick stayed with him through the worst of it and how he should probably thank him somehow. He thinks on all of it while he sits on the couch in a sea of built up trash and watches somewhat numbly as Jason stuffs it all into a trash bag. 

He should thank him, but he doesn't have the words. He's run out of words to talk about how he feels because most of the time he only feels numb inside. He can't seem to take the pills he was given with any consistency anymore and he knows that plays no small part of this latest addition to his ball of fucked up shit. Those drugs, they alter brain chemistry. He _knows_ that means he needs to take them consistently. 

He also can't seem to remember anything even when he tries anymore.

He tries to think of what questions he missed on that IQ test but his mind comes up a blank slate. He tries to recall what courses he was taking this semester but all he can remember is Civics. He remembers the half-finished essay from a week ago. His stomach churns and he leans over, bracing his hands on his knees and he must look like how he feels because Jason's there, pulling him to his feet and guiding him into the bathroom.

Logic refuses to intervene and Tim ends up kneeling in the tub. He gags and Jason's hands pull his hair back, slipping a tie into his hair and then he's gone, just like that. He leaves Tim to his shame and he's so grateful he knows he could never express it properly if given the opportunity. He chokes on air, on stomach acid that won't fully come up, he wretches and coughs and dry heaves until he's sobbing. Spit slicks his chin, but nothing else. 

Tim lurches forward and turns on the water, stabbing icicles of freezing water rain down on him and he finally gags up _something_. He's not sure if it's shock or if it's his body finally relenting to his forcefulness. He watches the bile swirl away down the drain and he feels better for it. 

He has a problem. A brand new one.

He inspects it in his mind like an outsider, examines it and decides he can't really figure out _why_ it's there. He's not throwing up food, so it's not an eating disorder. He's not doing it this time because of the way acid burns his throat. He feels separate from himself as he repeats the process a few more times and then sits back, soaking wet, and just feels the pain in his muscles from heaving so hard.

Something catches in his mind and he sees it for what it is for one starkly blinding moment. He's doing it to feel something again. He feels pain and he feels the slight upset of having thrown up. That settles bone deep and he revels in it while it exists.

Jason gets him out of the shower a while later, silently pushes him into the bedroom where a fresh set of clothing is laying on his bed and Tim wordlessly strips, letting Jason pick up the soaking wet outfit he'd been wearing. He goes back to the couch and he sits down and he thinks to himself that this wasn't how his life was supposed to be.

A plate gets put in his lap and he eats because it’s there, not because he wants it. He drinks the water and the tea he's given and then he curls up on his side and stares at the blank television screen like somehow it will save him. 

He wishes it would.

He's not sure how long it is that this process repeats itself. He doesn't sleep, he eventually takes medication that Jason hands him, he eats what's put in front of him. He drinks too hot coffee and holds plates and cups just out of the microwave like he's fireproof. Jason doesn't comment, but once in a while he'll take them away and put them on the counter right in front of Tim, forcing him to make a new decision as to what he's going to do with it. Sometimes he picks them back up, sometimes he doesn't.

Tim doesn't speak. Jason doesn't speak. Tim wonders if they've gone mute together.

When Tim does sleep it's filled with dreams that verge on hallucinations. When he stays awake too long he sees hallucinations that verge on dreams. He wonders if he's hallucinating Jason. He wonders if he cares if he is.

Tim sits down one day and actually opens his mail. His bills have all been paid and he wonders how since he hasn't been to work in so long he's forgotten he has a job. He sees Damian's name on the payment history when he logs into his computer to check. He opens his will website and leaves the kid his entire music collection and specifies his books go to Jason. He logs back out and feels guilty he hasn't left something specific for Dick. He has nothing else left to give.

He remembers his classes and he signs in to see how far behind he is. He's been dis-enrolled from everything but Civics. For Civics, his papers are up to date and he's taken two tests he has no recollection of. He finds his own information on the trace and he stares at Jason over the top of his computer for nearly an hour before Jason finally sits down and levels his gaze on him and asks quietly, "Ready to talk again?"

"You turned in my Civics papers and took my exams." 

"You required one course to keep your status as active. You'll find your way out the other side of this eventually and you'll need those classes. Seeing as how I didn’t know the first damn thing about half the other shit you were taking, I kept you in the one I could fake."

Tim doesn't know what to say to that. He doesn't know how to thank Jason for thinking about his life outside of this nor does he understand how he could possibly think this will ever end. It doesn't feel like it has an end. There's no light at the end of the tunnel and there's nothing keeping him latched onto life other than some perverse inability to care enough to take it away. Dying feels like an answer, but he doesn’t have the strength to enact it. 

"I want to die."

Jason regards him quietly and Tim wonders what Dick would have done. He thinks Dick would have cuddled up to him and coddled him through it and whispered all the reasons why he was worth it in his ear. He thinks about Damian, sees the worry in his eyes and he sees it amplify when he says those words to him in his mind.

Jason stares at him like he just said his favorite color is red. 

Tim blinks and he wonders about Jason's reasoning. His mouth opens and he whispers, "I can't find the strength to do it though."

This time Jason speaks. "Depression's a hell of a monster. You don't want to live anymore, maybe you even have some elaborate plan on how to best ensure your death, but you can barely function enough to use the bathroom like a grown adult. You think about it until it's happening in your mind and maybe you even feel dead for a few minutes only to realize you never moved off the bathroom floor. You do things just to feel something and sometimes that doesn't work. You take medication because someone gave it to you and said it'd work. You think you’re crazy but your mind tells you this is sanity. You tell yourself you're insane and you spend an hour heaving in the toilet because that does yield something in your brain." Jason stands up. "That's depression speaking. It's depression acting. It's not you."

Jason goes to the bathroom and shuts the door and Tim wonders if he feels as ripped open and exposed as Tim does in those moments. He hears nothing and he envisions Jason standing in front of the mirror trying not to cry. The vision doesn't sit right.

The toilet flushes and Tim knows Jason didn't use it. The water runs and Tim wonders if Jason's washing his hands out of habit.

Jason comes back and Tim doesn't look at him. "Those words... they weren't about me."

"No."

There's no denial, no turning it around, only the confirmation that Tim's right. He lets that sink in. Jason's on the other side of it. He closes his eyes. "Fix it."

The grip on his shoulder is softer than he expects, his breath sticks in his throat. 

"Are you ready to accept the help?"

Tim thinks it over, debates if he'll react like he did with Damian. He doesn't want to do that again. He squeezes his eyes tighter shut and his voice feels broken, like shattered glass in his throat when he whispers, "Yes."

He doesn’t want to be like this anymore. He doesn't want to be useless and fragile and helpless. He doesn't want to feel like a child and he doesn't want to barely sleep or wake up on the rare occasion he does with his first thought being of death. Tears well in his eyes and he feels for the first time in weeks. Maybe in months. "Help me. Help me fix it."

Jason's hand squeezes tighter and Tim reaches up and clings to his wrist, holds on tighter than he should. Jason doesn't say anything and Tim feels worn out, exhausted to his core, and when Jason breathes out, "Then sleep for me," he tips over on the couch and closes his eyes. 

He can do this. He can sleep. Even if his thoughts go round and round and his world feels like it's made of cotton and shards of glass, he can do this. He can... _sleep_.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so a lot of these are coping skills I use for anxiety. They work when I let them work. Calm Harm is a real app. It's fantastic and it was recommended to me by a professional. It's cute and it helps and it doesn't really feel like much to just follow what it asks me to do. I've averted two panic attacks with it since I downloaded it less than a month ago (as of November when I wrote this). I know it's for self-harm, but like I said, I'm using it for anxiety and really, it's about distraction from the issue you're having. About separating yourself from the feelings causing whatever's going on. https://calmharm.co.uk/ Check it out. Even if you don't need it yourself, maybe you know someone who does.

Jason's still there when he wakes up. He's been covered with a blanket and his pill and water glass are waiting for him on the coffee table. His house is clean and while Jason's stuff in on the chair across from his couch, Jason's nowhere to be seen, but Tim knows he's there. He takes the pill and gets up to go to the bathroom.

Beside his own note there are five more. Tim takes the time to read them.

_Brush your teeth._

He hesitates and decides his bladder can wait, roots around until he finds his toothbrush and toothpaste and stands there with the water running scrubbing at his teeth until he's sick of the taste of peppermint on his tongue. He spits, rinses, and puts everything away.

_Do your hair._

He takes a deep breath and digs out his brush, he pulls the tie from his hair and winces when he realizes how greasy his hair is. He drops the tie on the counter and puts his brush back down, gives up and plods to the toilet. He lifts the lid and slides his sweats down enough to urinate. There's a note under the lid of the toilet.

_Don't give up._

He sighs, empties his bladder, flushes, closes the lid and strips. He gets in the shower if only not to disappoint Jason. Inside the shower a laminated note has been taped to the wall with shipping tape. 

_Reasonable temperatures. Deep breaths. You've got this._

Tim makes a face and turns on the faucets, letting the water turn warm - not scalding nor frozen - before he turns on the shower portion and gets to work. It's not an easy process, it's more than he's done in months if he's being real about it. Water has taken the place of most of his shower supplies over time, but all his bottles are new and full and Tim wonders if Jason left him asleep on the couch to go shopping or if he's done this at some other point since he's been around.

He finishes up after having spent a solid twenty minutes on actually scrubbing off, shampooing and conditioning. He puts his lotion on for the first time in over a year after he's dried his skin and he stands back in front of the mirror. 

_Do your hair._

He picks up his brush and runs it through his wet hair until the tangles are all free, until he realizes how long it's gotten. He squeezes more water from it and leaves it down.

_Shave._

There's an arrow pointing to the side cabinet on this one and he opens it, finds all his shaving supplies have been neatly reorganized along with everything else in his bathroom cabinet. He's been flinging things in there for years now. He blinks at the array of items he owns, plucks out the electric shaver that blessedly has a charge and gets to work on the scruff he's accumulated. If he's honest it's less scruff and more of a beard. He gets rid of it entirely and puts on cologne he didn't know he owned, but the bottle's half empty and it smells familiar, so he just rolls with it.

He shuts the cabinet and reads the next note.

_Drink a glass of water._

Strange, but he does it. He fills the small, squeaky clean, glass that's sitting by the tap and downs it, setting it back down and looks at the final note.

_You want to live today, so live it like you mean it._

He takes a deep breath and finds it isn't the worst thing he's ever thought. He sort of does want to live today. He debates what "like you mean it" means and decides to call Damian finally. He sits on the couch and finds his phone in the cushions. It has a charge and he thinks Jason must have been doing that for him and then putting it back wherever he left it. He calls Damian and he accepts the slightly panicked tone the kid has when he answers. He clears his throat.

"I want to live today." He's not sure what possesses him to be that blunt about it, but it feels like what Jason meant by "like you mean it" and he decides that it's probably as close as he can get at the moment. Telling someone else he wants to live makes it seem more like a reality and he decides he can deal with that.

Damian's quiet for a moment. Tim checks if the call has disconnected and then puts the phone back to his ear in time to hear the quiet little hiccup of breath he understands too well. "Good... that's... that's very good." He hears relief and he hears fear and he realizes how much he's hurt those around him with how he's been.

He's horrible at this. He can't stop hurting the people around him, he can't stop failing them, he... _can't_. His shoulders sag and he only marginally notices when Jason takes the phone from his hand, says something to Damian and then hangs up. He does notice the hand under his chin and he sees the fire in Jason's eyes when he looks up at him.

"You're spiraling. If you want to do this, we've got to really do it. Take a deep breath and then take another."

Tim does as he's told and Jason fidgets with his phone. When he gets it back there's a new app on the home screen called Calm Harm. He makes a face.

"Whenever you start letting your thoughts spiral out of control, whenever you want to hold a plate or a mug that's too hot for too long, whenever you want to force yourself to throw up, and whenever you want to drink your coffee too hot, I want you to open this app and try one of the exercises. I'll tell you up front it's not always going to work. But sometimes it will. Over time... sometimes will become more and more often when you start letting it help you. Promise me you'll do it."

Tim hesitates and then clicks on the app. He sets up a username and password and taps on Distract and then 5 minutes. He taps on the option to _Say the 17 times tables_ and forces his mind to concentrate on doing that. It's not overly difficult for him; it's probably worse for most of the populous judging by Jason's slightly arched eyebrows as he states them out loud. The app tells him five minutes is up and he completes the activity and answers a question it asks him.

He feels a little less like he's drowning. He clicks on another activity and Jason leaves him to it. Tim smells sausage cooking a few minutes later and he curls up on the couch counting all the ninety-degree angles he can see in his house from where he sits. There's a lot. More than he expected, in fact. He counts the ones inside of others, the absurd amount on his picture frames, he counts the inside of the woodwork on his entertainment center and he finds himself continuing past the five minutes without a care in the world. He counts until he's done with what he can see and puts the phone on the coffee table. 

He gets up and goes to lean on the island, eating sausage when Jason serves it to him. He drinks the juice Jason puts out and he thinks about how nice this is. He wishes it could stay like this.

He's afraid he knows it won't.


	18. Chapter 18

Days pass of Tim just struggling to exist. He follows the instructions on Jason's notes, logs into the app when Jason plucks him from his abyss and reminds him the app is there for a reason. Jason never leaves and Tim wonders what all he's put aside for Tim's sake. 

He thinks about that often. He thinks about how he doesn't know if Jason has a day job, he doesn't know where he lives, he doesn't know... much. He also doesn't see more than three outfits on Jason's body and it occurs to him after a long time that perhaps Jason hasn't been living anywhere at all. 

They've left one of their own out in the cold.

He knows it bone deep and he doesn't have to ask, but he does. He corners Jason in the kitchen one evening, slice of overloaded pizza in hand, Jason chewing an enormous bite, and Tim just cocks his hip against the counter and he quietly asks, "We failed you didn't we?"

Jason considers him for a moment, swallows and shrugs. "No more so than I failed all of you by coming back the way I did."

"That wasn't your fault."

Jason gives him a look that stirs something deep inside Tim and breathes out, "And this isn't yours."

They don’t finish the conversation. Tim doesn't know what to say and Jason appears to have no interest in supplying anything more than that about the situation. Tim chalks it up to how far Jason's clearly come in his own head and how far Tim has to go.

He's not sure when he started regarding his mental health as a battle he needs to win, but it works. He looks in the mirror in the morning and pretends it's a fight. He pretends he's Robin again and Bruce has told him he can't fail him. He breathes and he uses Jason's notes to get him through it, like a choreographed fight scene and it works somehow. At least enough to get him through the morning and from there it's less of a hassle to simply continue through the day than it is to give up and sit down and not move.

Some days he loses that battle and Jason finds him staring at nothing. He always wordlessly hands him his phone and Tim passes his time within the app and a few others he's picked up to distract himself with. Sudoku, some kind of matching gems game that also encourages him to _free the cats_ \- he thinks Damian would like that - and a mahjong game. He plays until he feels something again and then does what he can with the rest of the day under Jason's careful guidance.

He drinks coffee sometimes. He takes it cold now though and he uses it only when he feels like he wants to remember the taste. He holds onto dishes out of the microwave less and less often, though he still does it sometimes. Jason always takes it and places it on the counter to force him to pick it back up or walk away. He picks it back up a lot, but sometimes he walks away and that's enough of a victory when he sees Jason's little smile.

He navigates his days as a series of lists and somehow it feels like cheating, like he's not really living and he's just playing pretend. Today he sits down and thinks about throwing up. He must look like what he's thinking about because Jason kneels in front of him and puts two fingers under his chin and stares him dead in the eyes. "What is it?"

Tim swallows down all his words until he finds the right ones to express how he feels. Jason waits him out and Tim's thankful for that.

"I feel like I'm faking it and like that's cheating. Like I'm not really okay."

Jason smiles and Tim thinks how bizarre that is. "We're all faking it, Tim. Every person on this planet. Do you think any of us know what we're doing? I mean truly? Think about it. We don't know why we're here, we don't know what our purpose is beyond existing. We do these things because society says that's what we're supposed to do. We get up in the morning and we brush our teeth because we're told our breath stinks and we need to keep our teeth healthy. We're told to brush our hair because keeping it in a rat's nest is frowned upon. We wear clothing because the way we were born isn't allowed in public. We're supposed to be ashamed of some things and proud of others and it's so arbitrary. We're told what normal is every day of our lives and if you think every person out there isn't just faking it to try to meet those standards, you're wrong."

Jason stands up and Tim feels like he's been through a whirlwind. He sits there stunned as Jason walks off to some other part of the apartment. He thinks about what he said. What if everyone _is_ faking it just as much as he is? So what if it takes notes on his mirror to force him into faking it enough to pass. Maybe they can tick it off mentally and he can't, but he's still doing it, isn't he?

He takes a deep breath and he realizes he doesn't feel like vomiting anymore. He tucks his feet up on the edge of the couch and he thinks about his life, about what faking it used to mean. College classes, his job at Wayne Enterprises, his night job. He closes his eyes and wonders if any of it's worth it anymore. 

When he opens his eyes Jason's watching him silently over the top of a book from his armchair. Tim watches him until he's ready to talk.

"It's not normal to be a vigilante is it?"

"Here in Gotham... maybe it is." Jason puts down his book, Tim notes it's one of his own he's never gotten around to reading and probably never will. At least someone has.

He hums and looks up at the ceiling instead. "What if... what if I was using the pain there to cope with my shit?"

"You think Bruce isn't?"

That hits Tim where it hurts. He actually lifts his hand to his chest to rub at it as he considers it. He remembers knowing what Jason said was true once upon a time. That time feels like it's ten million years ago. He makes it the truth again in his mind and he lets it settle like a blanket across his memories. Bruce uses Batman to cope. 

"Is it okay if I use Red Robin that way, too?"

Jason sighs and Tim glances at him, sees the pain in his eyes. "If you do, you'll be eternally in danger of being like he is. Bruce doesn't deal, he never has. He doesn't take a minute to breathe when he needs it, he doesn't sleep when his body tells him to, he doesn't even let himself heal right. He's never dealt with his shit, Tim, and he never will. I'd say to some degree we are all using our nighttime activities to cope, but the truth is, we can't let it be like him. You can't let it slip anywhere if you do. You can't let someone hit you because you need to be hit, you can't run out the door into the night just because you don't want to face your emotions or whatever hell your mind has dredged up. You can't outrun your nightmares like that or one day they'll all catch up and you'll end up in Arkham."

"You think he will?"

"I _know_ he will." Jason says it like it's a fact, like there's never been any room for argument and Tim considers where Jason's been, the things he's seen and experienced and he remembers Jason's confessions. He closes his eyes and accepts that as another fact in his mind.

"I want to do college, but I don't think I can anymore."

"Then take one class a semester, online, until you get your degree. It's okay if it takes a long time. No one ever asks how long it took, only if you got the degree."

Tim considers this, too, and he wonders when Jason became the dealer of facts. The words make him smile. He holds onto that feeling and he tucks it inside for a warm thought on a cold day. "I want to go back to work... do I still have a job?"

Jason's quiet and when Tim looks up, he finds the softest look on his face. They study each other for a minute and Jason shrugs. "I think that's a question for the little Bat, don’t you?"

Tim nods, slips his feet off the couch, and gets up to go to the window. He sees the outside world for the first time in weeks and he takes a shaky breath. He needs to start small. One thing at a time. He calls Damian and when it goes to voicemail, he hangs up and texts instead, unwilling to face leaving a message today. 

_I'm just wondering if I still have a job. I understand if I don't._

He pushes his phone into his pocket and leans against the window and when Jason joins him, Tim almost wants to lean into his warmth. He nearly does before he reminds himself this is Jason, not Dick. He longs for touch and he wishes he even had Damian's hand to squeeze in his own. Jason's right there, but he's so far away.

Tim goes to bed if only not to deal with these old emotions wearing a new face. His demons were only waiting on him to see them again. 

He knows what tomorrow brings and he's not sure if he's ready to face it.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: I cried again editing this chapter... rough one incoming, guys.

His first thought is that he wasn't wrong. His second is that he hates his life.

He rolls over in his bed and he almost wishes someone were there. He's shaking and his palms are sweaty and he didn't miss this at all. He didn't miss the way his heart is pounding or the way his sleep pants are uncomfortably tight. He wishes he never had to deal with this again. He could be normal without this.

Tears sting his eyes and he lets them fall if only because nothing else makes sense in the moment. His heart slides up into his throat and he feels like he's being strangled. He closes his eyes and he feels Uncle Vari's hands again and it's only distantly that he realizes he's so scared he's voiding his bladder right where he is. The bed grows warm and wet under him and he slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle the sobs that are coming out.

He can't breathe. 

He _is_ breathing, but he can't breathe.

His hand fumbles for his phone and he tries three times to unlock it before flinging it across the room and bringing his own hands to his throat and strangling himself with them in some attempt to make the phantom hands leave him alone. He feels the vomit in his throat and he feels helpless to move. 

Maybe he'll choke on it.

Jason's there, swimming in his vision and he gurgles as Jason rips his hands away from his throat and yanks him upright, shoves him over the trashcan Tim keeps by his bed and forces what had been strangling him out of him. He gags and chokes his way through getting it out, retches on nothing, and then sobs until he dry heaves. 

Jason sits with him until he's shaking, curled on his side on the bed, and then he holds out a single blue pill. Tim shoves his hand away with enough force the pill goes flying. He doesn't want to feel like that right now. He doesn't want to _not_ feel when he's been trying so hard _to_ feel.

He shakes and Jason rubs his back.

He aches by the time he gains enough coherence to realize his pants are soaked and his bed is wet. He realizes Jason's sitting in it and embarrassment leaves him wanting to vacate this realm and never come back. It's not thoughts of death this time, but of ceasing existence so he doesn't have to deal with explaining himself. 

He tries a weak apology but Jason just gets him out of bed and into the shower and points at the sign that tells him: _Reasonable temperatures. Deep breaths. You've got this._ He tries to pretend he's got this. 

It's an effort not to turn on the shower too hot or too cold. It's even more of one to go through the motions of washing himself and wringing out his pants and tossing them on the floor outside the shower. He's a grown man and he just pissed himself in absolute unadulterated terror that someone he hasn't seen in years was going to strangle him to death for having an erection.

He stares at the sign. _Deep breaths._ He does it only because he's being told to in twenty four point Sans Serif and he thinks Jason needs to be set straight as to what fonts are allowable outside of fifth grade.

Somewhere inside something shifts and he focuses on that, on reaming Jason for his font choices and asking him how the fuck he managed to laminate something when Tim doesn't own a laminator and it brings him back to Jason pretty much living in his house. He stands under the water an extra five minutes thinking about how he doesn't want him to leave. Not now and not ever.

Tim gets out of the shower and regards himself in the mirror between all the notes. He's a man who knows one thing he wants for certain. He's also a man who just pissed his bed. Dread sinks into his stomach. He doesn't deserve Jason. In fact, he'll go out there and Jason will already be gone. He doesn’t want to deal with the freak that panics in the night and pees himself. 

Tim isn't entirely sure how he leaves the restroom or how he gets through putting on the clothing that's been left on his suspiciously _dry_ bed. His room doesn't smell of piss though it does smell like air freshener and his chest hurts at the idea that Jason cleaned up his mess. He has tears in his eyes by the time he gets to the living room, by the time he finds Jason curled up with a book on his couch. He sits beside him and he opens his mouth and he wants to sob when what comes out is," I understand if you want to leave now."

The pain in his chest feels like a heart attack. He knows it's not.

Between one blink and the next he's in Jason's arms, he's being held so tenderly and so close that Tim doesn't know what to think. He didn't believe Jason _wanted_ touch. He clings to his arm and turns his mouth against his shoulder and closes his eyes if only because he can think of nothing else to do with this moment. 

"I'm not leaving you."

They don't talk about what happened. Jason doesn't make him and Tim doesn't want to. They leave it at those words and Tim spends the rest of the night on the couch right beside Jason.

He thinks to himself that if Jason can stay through this, then maybe he'll stay through about anything.


	20. Chapter 20

Three days span between his incident and his first day back to work. Damian has, apparently, smoothed things over with the board and taken Tim's place as lead. Tim finds he doesn’t really mind that he's the secondary now. He's thankful to be sitting here at all after how far he's fallen. 

Keeping up is harder than he expected, his mind fighting to parse itself into breathing properly and maintaining this charade of normality he's brought down over himself like a cloak. His hand pauses on the notebook more than once while he tries to keep meeting minutes. It's not his job, but he needs to get back into things somehow. He doesn't miss that when he stops writing Damian starts typing on his computer. He's making up for him and Tim isn't sure how he feels about that. 

He knows his past self would be pissed off, though present him isn't.

He's learned to accept help if nothing else. That settles in his stomach and it feels like a good weight instead of like something he needs to rid himself of. When he swallows it's with emotion and not with acid on the back of his tongue. He breathes without thinking about it for once and his hand goes back to taking notes.

Tim doesn't talk during the meetings and no one asks him questions. They know he's catching up and he knows the deep hollows under his eyes speak of what he's been through. He wonders how much they know and he wonders, too, if he cares if they know. He thinks his phone would have blown up with news outlets if they really knew all about his mental break. He ponders how he's covered for himself in the past and he realizes he hasn't. 

They know because this isn't the first time. They know because he's never bothered to cover his tracks before and no one has done it for him this time because they are all aware of how it's gone in the past. It perplexes him that they still trust him with being a part of their company and that he kept lead for so long with that sort of recklessness. 

He asks Damian at the end of the day and he gets a stare that cuts so deep he wonders if Damian can see his insides before he gets his answer.

"Because you're good at what you do."

He deliberates that all the way home. He's _so_ good at it, apparently, that they've all forgiven his madness. He breathes in and it feels fresh: like nothing else has in a while. He lodges that into the ever-growing database of facts he's building up in his brain. He thinks about writing quotes of good things people say about him. He thinks about making himself believe them like this for the rest of his life. 

He comes home to a warm dinner and Jason's warmer smile. He thinks again how he doesn't want to lose him and he mulls over a million versions of how to tell him during dinner. The result is them not speaking and he knows that this isn't entirely unusual for how they've been interacting all this time. He watches Jason, sees his mental cogs turning and he thinks about how it must have felt for Jason to entertain himself all these years and how it must feel now to have someone else around to at least exist in the same room. 

"I think I'd like to get an apartment with two bedrooms... how do you feel about that?" It's the safest path to what he wants. It puts it on him that he wants it and doesn't put shit on Jason. He hopes it doesn't run him off. He peers at him over the rim of his iced tea glass and waits, watching Jason chew for too long and put down his fork.

He almost expects something abrasive from Jason, some way for him to shove off the emotion that's threatening to strangle them both. He watches the war on Jason's face and when he finally settles on something he sees the bone-deep sadness that pulls around his eyes, he sees the weariness in Jason's shoulders. "I know what you're asking, don’t think I don't. But you don't want me here for good. Trust me on that."

Jason gets up and Tim knows better than to go after him when he excuses himself to the bathroom. Part of him wonders how Jason copes, what it is he does in there. Part of him envisions him staring at the signs he put up for Tim and part of him sees a lonely teenage boy who doesn't know who he is or how he's come to be on the street performing various acts of violence against himself in the closed up room. Tim wishes he didn't see the second one because it snaps his heart in two.

He goes when it's been twenty minutes, he opens the door and he finds Jason sitting against the far wall. He looks distant, but Tim can't find any evidence of anything Jason may have done. He's wearing a tank top and he sees nothing marking his arms. His eyes aren't red rimmed and his gaze isn't glassy like he's high. Tim kneels over his thighs and frames his face in his hands and doesn't think when he leans in and presses the most fleeting of gentle kisses on Jason's lips. 

It's almost a surprise when it doesn't set him off. When Tim doesn't feel like he's going to die or like his heart's going to jackhammer out of his chest. He realizes Jason's hands are on his elbows and he just shifts to stare down at his arm, at Jason's hands, and they breathe together. 

"I do... I want you here." Tim swallows and he feels this like he hasn't felt a conviction in far too many years. "I want this more than I've ever wanted anything else in my life." 

He says it and he knows it's true.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been listening to Puscifer - The Humbling River and I feel like this song is everything Jason and Tim are together. It came up on my playlist and I just sat here in shock listening to it because it was like the missing piece I needed to put it all together. It feels like them and it feels like the answer. Please take a moment to listen to it. https://youtu.be/O0YxeTjFn70

They don't talk about it in any conventional way. Jason never says yes he'll move in officially and Tim never truly asks in any outright sort of way - at least not anything more than he's already said. Rather it becomes a mutual decision in all the subtle sorts of ways. Tim leaves his computer on with his browser open to three apartments and comes home to find all but one closed. 

Jason leaves a magazine on the bathroom counter with a reasonably priced futon on it. Tim leaves a printout of a lovely bed that's cheaper than the futon and implies more permanence. Jason doesn't throw it away and somehow that's enough for Tim.

They start packing only because Tim comes home to half of his stuff in boxes and he finishes the job. They apply for the apartment by Tim filling out his half of the lease form and Jason finishing up his part and submitting it. They're accepted and Tim believes it may have been on his name alone given the turnaround time. After all he has a job at Wayne Enterprises, it shouldn't come as a shock.

They move out in much the same way. Tim moves half their shit and goes to work and when he comes home there's a note and a key on the counter and not a stitch of anything left in his apartment. He stands in the living room and he says goodbye. He frets to himself on the way to his and Jason's new place about his bathroom mirror notes and he wonders if he'll survive without them. He's not sure he will.

He comes in the door and Jason's in the midst of unpacking. He's sweaty and a bit dusty and Tim heads right to the bathroom because he's not sure he can deal at the moment. He closes the door and turns around and he stares at the huge mirror over the sink and he sees the dozens of post-it notes. They're all new and while some of them have the same old words others have new things to offer him. 

_Vitamins are a good start to a good day. We have the gummy kind._

Tim looks down at the counter and sees the colorful little gummies in their clear plastic container. He picks up the bottle and taps two out on his palm and pushes them in his mouth to chew while he regards the other notes.

_Neither of us are alone now._

His heart breaks and he can't breathe as he puts his hand over his mouth and swallows only so that he doesn't strangle on the vitamins. He feels this in his gut, he feels it like a knife once the adrenaline wears off and he tips his head back and he cries because this is Jason opening up to him. He clutches the counter and he lets himself feel and he's thankful he _feels_. He cries until he's got nothing left, until he can look at the note and feel something else. He finds the word _grateful_ in his mind and he latches onto it and he holds it tight.

_We can do this._

Tim looks down at the other side of the sink where this particular note is positioned and sees that it's over Jason's items. A comb, a toothbrush and a half-used toothpaste tube. The electric razor Tim vaguely remembers Bruce having given Jason a few years ago, and a single pill bottle. He thinks this note is for Jason's benefit more than his own.

He knows he's right.

Tim washes his face and pats himself dry with the towel. It's fluffy and he wonders if he's always had it. He doesn't recall using hand towels, but he distantly remembers being given some when he moved out of the manor. 

Jason's found all his secret items. Tim finds relief in that.

Above the light switch is a note that says: _The night is dark. The day is light. Both are bright if you turn on the damn light._ He laughs because he didn't expect this. He honestly didn't remember Jason used to have a wicked sense of humor until now. He wonders where it's been all these months. He touches the note to feel the paper beneath his fingertips and he turns off the light and opens the door to this next phase in his life.

Jason has dust smeared across his cheek, he looks exhausted, and it's Tim who orders pizza instead of having them cook. He has to look up their lease paperwork to get the address and it's almost belatedly that he realizes he should tell someone else that he's moved. He sends a mass email to everyone who matters with the new address and the fact that they can find both Tim and Jason there. 

He expects it when his phone blows up ten minutes later and he can't stop the way he sits on the sofa and smiles to himself as he reads all the perplexed, but slightly pleased messages. He gets to Damian's and he snorts.

_I demand an explanation immediately._

He tries not to laugh and snorts so hard he starts coughing and Jason's starting at him from the floor like he's lost it and he holds out his phone and manages, "I told them our new address." 

Jason regards the text, rolls his eyes, hands the phone back and offers - a bit smugly, "You created it, you deal with it."

Tim taps out his reply and when he sends it, he knows it's true.

_I think I figured out who I was meant to find._


	22. Chapter 22

It's difficult to find time to unpack the shit in his room, but Tim knows it has to be done, just as he also knows he shouldn't make Jason do it. He hasn't invaded Jason's space and he doesn't intend to make Jason invade his own. Not that he thinks he'd mind, but... it's the concept of it that matters.

He's stuck in the midst of a pile of clothing he had no awareness of having ever owned. He isn't even sure half of it is _fit_ for wearing anymore. He's aware that some of it has been in his life since he was a teenager and he knows for sure parts of it will no longer fit. He's busy sorting out the various pieces into piles when he hears a crash from Jason's room.

He's up in an instant, finds himself at Jason's door before he really thinks again, and manages to get himself to knock before just barging into Jason's personal space. When he doesn't get an answer, he shoves the door open anyway and steps inside.

The room's tidy, a neat little space with very little in it. There's the dresser Tim insisted he didn't need and Jason should keep. Most of the drawers are open with nearly nothing inside. A single box resides in the middle of Jason's floor and Tim realizes he hasn't unpacked yet either. Then it hits him that it's one box. Jason owns _one box_ worth of stuff. He's sure there's the usual array of vigilante crap somewhere out there, but he's also abruptly aware that Jason has stopped going out at night and that after the first few nights his suit and guns had disappeared as well. 

There aren't any pictures on the walls and Jason's bed is made, but Tim can see it's only with a blanket. His heart wrenches in his chest and he steps further into the room, breathes out, "Jason?"

He hears a hitching breath from the other side of the bed and he rounds it and comes to a stop. Jason's on his knees, blood's dripping from his face though with the way his head is hanging Tim can't see where from exactly. He kneels and Jason looks up at him and in that instant Tim knows this is where he gets to pay back everything Jason has given him. He knows this look like he knows his own self-hatred. He's felt it before, though his own effects were only temporary. He's always known Jason's weren't.

He knows if he touches Jason right now he may very well die for his efforts, so he sits on the floor instead. He sits and he puts his hands in his lap, palms up, and he thinks about what to do. He remembers Pru and he remembers all of the things Damian told him about when he came back and admitted what had happened to him. He remembers Damian's ten year old voice telling him all about how people would come out of there sometimes and what they'd do to try to help them.

Tim listens to Jason's ragged breathing and he doesn't give any indication that it's remotely odd. He only watches Jason once in a while and the rest of the time he studies his hands or the wall behind them or the fragments of broken glass that clearly used to one of their tall water glasses. He studies the sheet still wound around Jason's ankles and the pillow part way under the bed. He's been sleeping on the floor.

Tim takes out his phone and opens his Calm Harm app and he turns it onto one of the breathing exercises and puts it on the floor between them. He follows the little inflating and deflating dot as it does its thing for ten minutes. 

Jason doesn't.

Tim taps his fingers on his own thighs and he gets up and goes to the kitchen. He makes a cup of Jason's favorite tea and he gets a few more blankets from the hall closet and he dumps them on the bed when he comes back in. He sits on the floor again and sets the tea cup between them. 

Jason's hand trembles when he reaches out for it.

Eventually Tim exhausts his options and just starts talking like everything's normal. "That jerk, Lee, is at it again. I'm not sure what he thinks he stands to gain by antagonizing Damian but he's going to learn soon enough that he's not the kind of person anyone should try pushing around. I mean, doing it to me was one thing - I'll put up with a lot of shit - but Damian... well, he can be a cutthroat bitch when he needs to be." He glances at Jason, watches him examine his tea cup and take a tentative sip. It's like watching a feral animal take food that's been tossed on the ground for it. Sadness swims in Tim's veins that Jason still has to endure this.

"Trisha spoke up and I think she stopped the oncoming storm, but one of these times Lee's gonna get stuck with his pants down and his ass out and Damian's going to hand it to him."

He isn't sure what else to talk about, it's more than he's accomplished saying outside of work in months. He wets his lips and gives up talking about work. He doesn't mean to talk about what he does. He just opens his mouth and it's what comes out.

"It's okay, you know... to not be okay, I mean. You've seen me at my worst and you still moved in with me. I'll see you through your worst, too. Pretty sure that's how this stuff is supposed to work." He trails off and considers his words, considers opening up even more. He closes his eyes and he does. "I need you in my life. I never knew I did, but once you were there it was like... like when you just feel something click, you know? Something ratchets forward in your chest and you understand the truth of it." He's rambling, but it means something to him. He hopes maybe it sinks in for Jason, even if it only does it later. 

"It's not like I didn't know what I was getting into. I'm not sure you knew what kind of shit you were stepping on when you showed up at my apartment that night, but you stuck with me through it. But I've been here, Jay. I know what it feels like when the pit hedges back in. It hasn't really happened in years, but those first few months out of the pit... it was a daily battle. For a while it kept coming back, usually when I was dreaming and I'd wake up and feel it in my veins. It's like taking some designer drug, but everything feels wrong instead of pleasant. You feel it in your every atom and you can't make it go away. It's not an issue of conquering, I don't think. It was just surviving through it. Maybe... it's more like depression than I realized at the time. You can't stop it or fix it, but you can wait out the bad days and work through the halfway crappy ones and be thankful for the good ones in between."

When he looks at Jason this time he finds him watching him, a haunted look in his eyes, his lips a thin line, teacup clutched between broad palms, and Tim thinks if he hadn't been prepared to deal with this look, he'd think Jason was utterly insane. Instead he watches him back, he keeps his gaze until Jason looks away and Tim sees the slump in his shoulders. 

He knows what's going on in Jason's mind, or at least he thinks he does. He remembers the hallucinations that were worse than the ones from lack of sleep, he remembers _feeling_ them vividly. He closes his eyes and leans against the wall and recalls the ache in his bones afterward. He also recalls losing time entirely, hours or days at a time, and he remembers the first time he woke up in Pru's care, covered in blood that wasn't his own and having no idea what he'd done. She never did tell him and he's never truly wanted to find out.

He opens his eyes and Jason's too close for where Tim thought he was. He doesn't flinch and he doesn't show the icy little finger of fear he feels drawing along his spine. Jason grabs his collar and Tim doesn't panic. He's not sure how. It feels like he should be losing it right about now. He puts his hand down on the floor and it's wet and warm and his pinky finds the spilled teacup and he wonders if Jason is aware of what he's doing. Tim wonders what he _is_ doing. 

Jason trembles and Tim dares to place his hands on him. He holds his biceps in a gentle grip and he waits him out. He watches his gaze go from an empty abyss to something clearer, he sees the shock and the fear, and it's then that he draws Jason toward him. He holds him close and he waits until the shaking stops. He presses his nose against Jason's shoulder and he breathes. 

Jason breathes with him and Tim knows he has him back.

The pit can't have him, Tim won't let it take him.


	23. Chapter 23

Tim spends the night on Jason's floor. He isn't even fully aware that he's doing it until he wakes up to the light streaming in the windows and Jason's gentle snores from where he's curled up beside him. He can't help himself when he presses his pinky against Jason's and just sits there like that for what feels like hours before Jason stirs from his sleep.

He watches the way Jason wakes up. The stiffness, the uncertainty, the _panic_ and Tim understands. He sees then that Jason's just as vulnerable as he is, only in completely different ways. He knows the streets bred this into him. Living alone without his memory, without knowledge of who he was or where he was going. He can't imagine how it must have been. He imagines suffocating in his own coffin and he decides right then and there that he's being cremated if he dies. He makes a mental note to add it to his will as a requirement.

Jason's eyelids flutter open and his pinky moves to link with Tim's and he just stares at him for the longest time before he sits up and looks around, winces at the wet carpet, the shards of glass Tim has piled against the wall in lieu of getting up to throw them out last night, at the teacup still on its side, Tim not having bothered with it. He sees the apology before it ever reaches Jason's lips and he just smiles at him and murmurs, "Welcome back."

Tim stands up and holds out his hand. If Jason can treat him like he's okay after he's panicked and pissed himself, he can certainly treat Jason just the same after a go with the remnants of the pit. 

Jason takes his hand and Tim helps tug him to his feet. He gives him a cursory glance to see if there's glass in him anywhere and when he's satisfied, he leads Jason to the bathroom and turns him to face the mirror. He reaches out and lets his fingers hover on the edge of _Neither of us are alone now._ and waits until Jason reaches to touch it, too. He presses his hand lightly against his shoulder, squeezes, and murmurs, "Take a shower, I'll start breakfast."

Jason nods and it's a little stiff, but he's here with Tim and that's all he wanted for now. He closes the door behind himself and heads to the kitchen.

He's halfway through making omelets with eggs and cheese he didn't know they had when Jason makes his reappearance from the bathroom. He's wrapped in a robe Tim vaguely remembers Dick having given him years ago and never having used and he smiles that Jason's using it. He's glad he doesn't feel like he can't have anything Tim has as his own. What's Tim's is Jason's and he's not going to change his mind on that.

He serves Jason his omelet and leans on the counter while his continues to cook. "Do you want to talk about it? Completely up to you."

Jason hesitates, his fork halfway to his food. His hands shake a little and he cuts into the omelet. "No."

Tim pushes off the counter. "Fine by me. I'm here if you ever do." He opens the fridge and takes out the orange juice, pours Jason a plastic cup of it and pushes it toward him. He watches Jason primly cut little squares of his food but he takes note none of it is leaving the plate. Tim retrieves his own food from the stove and leans on the island, cutting off a piece with his fork and stuffing it in his mouth. Three more pieces and he finally stabs a piece of Jason's and holds his fork out, patiently waiting until Jason grudgingly yanks the fork from his grasp and eats it before shoving his fork back at him.

"I'm not a child." He bites the words out and then he pales and snaps his head up, his eyes full of regret.

Tim simply regards him. He's used to this, too. Usually from so many years ago he's almost forgotten it, but he thinks he might understand some of that a little better now, too. "I don't expect you are. Doesn't mean I can't wave the fork around until you get pissed and eat anyway."

Jason hunches over and moodily starts shoveling food in. 

Tim takes it for what it is.

He doesn't expect it when Jason tells him he's sorry. He also doesn't expect the fragile way it's said or the thickness of Jason's words. He goes around the island and pulls Jason into his arms and holds him close. He closes his eyes and he breathes in deep. Jason smells like Tim's own products and something uniquely _Jason_. Tim presses his nose to his shoulder and breathes. 

Jason breaths with him and Tim knows he's still got him right here. He's almost not aware of it when he whispers, "I'll always be here when you come back up."

He knows he will.

Tim has someone to protect now and he's always known that overrides everything else.


	24. Chapter 24

Tim isn't sure when this became a _thing_. He just knows it's the third time in as many weeks that he's found himself sitting across the dinner table from Dick in some fancy restaurant with shitty lighting and too much personal space. He likes the chandelier though. It gleams in the center of the walkway, bringing beauty to an otherwise drab existence. He thinks of it like it's Jason in his life. He realizes he's turned into a sap.

He hides his smile behind his wrist, rests his elbow on the table like Alfred always told him not to, and watches Dick's answering smile across the table. Tim drops his hand and smooths his napkin and debates what he's supposed to be talking about today. It's an effort, as always, to find a topic that isn't work. He doesn't go out at night anymore and he doesn't work their cases so he has no idea what they're doing. 

No one has pushed him to come back and part of him is grateful. The other part whispers he's failed them.

He swallows and puts his phone on the table, logs in and selects one of his puzzles and does it until the waiter comes for their orders. Tim orders like he always does at these places. He says, "The special," listens long enough to ensure there's not a question and then just smiles politely until they move on to Dick's order.

He never knows what the special is and that's part of the charm. Once he received snails. Another time he ended up with five types of roe and something that still moved on his plate. On the other hand he's ended up with fantastic dishes he knows nothing about and things he longs to try again, but never bothered asking what he'd ordered. It's half the fun.

He finishes playing his game and turns his phone off. He looks up and Dick looks curious, but not judgmental and Tim offers, "I was thinking about being a failure," once the waiter is gone. Dick opens his mouth and Tim shakes his head, holds up his hand. "It passed."

Dick takes a deep breath and Tim knows he's trying to stuff what he wants to say down and he sees how much effort it's taking and he tilts his head, asks quietly, "Why does it bother you so much?"

"You're worth the whole world, Tim. You're brilliant and caring and you have more empathy in your little finger than most people have in their entire body... but you see none of it at times and it hurts to know all you can see is that you've somehow failed some unseen task."

Tim considers him, considers his state of mind, and knows he can have this conversation. Knows Dick will stop when Tim can't have it anymore. "It’s not an unseen task. I've completely quit my night job and... no one cares. They don't care because I wasn't good at it to start with. It is what it is."

Dick stares at him and those... well, those are tears in his eyes. Tim feels a little bad, but he doesn't truly understand it. They stare at one another for what feels like forever until finally, Dick whispers, "Tim... god... we haven't asked you to come back out because we don't want to force you into anything you don’t want to do or just aren't ready to return to. We all figured you'd come back when you were ready and if you didn't, then that was okay too. Not because we don't want you or don't value you, but because _you_ mean more to us than the night job does. You've always been a huge part of our team. There's a million things only you can do or that you're better at than any of us. But that's never going to change that _you_ come first. Not your skills. _You_."

Dick says it with such passion that Tim finds himself swallowing down a thickness in his throat. He feels overwhelmed. He feels like static has invaded his veins and he wonders if this is what praise is supposed to feel like. He's not sure if he can stand it.

He shifts uncomfortably and fidgets with his napkin. The waiter comes and goes and Tim stares down at some kind of baked fish with rice, quinoa, and black beans. He manages a slightly strangled, "Thank you," directed entirely at Dick before he forces himself to pick up his fork and knife and starts eating.

When they do talk again, it's about the fish, about Dick's prime rib, about why it's so dark in here and Dick whispers a joke about how Batman could hide in the length of these damn shadows, and the tension erases itself from between them. Dick has always been good at that. 

Tim has always been grateful for it.

They make their way through crème de menthe over vanilla ice cream for dessert and when they get in the car and Dick doesn't head toward the apartment, Tim doesn't particularly question it. It's only once they're at the manor, standing in front of a towering Christmas Tree that Tim realizes what time of year it is and he wonders if he and Jason forgot Christmas altogether. He checks his phone and finds with relief that he still has three days.

He texts Jason _3 days til Xmas_ and gets back a Christmas tree emoji. He tucks his phone in his pocket and he wonders if he'll remember long enough to get everybody something. He's not sure he will. Hell, he's not even sure how much of a budget he has. Jason sort of took over the bills at the new place and Tim's distantly heard him arguing with the cable company on the phone a few times, but it's some of the small stuff the remnants of his depression won't let him give a shit about. 

He wonders why they're here for what feels like the twentieth time and as if the world is providing him an answer this time, Damian and Titus step into the room. Damian's carrying a huge canvas and when he sets it down - the back facing Tim - he looks embarrassed. He clears his throat a few times before he manages, "I did not wish to give this to you in front of everyone. I have... created it for you."

Tim reaches for it then and Damian helps him turn it around and Tim wants to cry when he sees it. It's a realistic oil painting of Tim and Damian and Jason and Dick the first year they all managed to get along long enough to accomplish Christmas in the same room. He remembers the photograph, he recalls having set up the camera to go off automatically every twenty minutes or so and while nearly all of it was crap, this had been a true gem. He'd treasured it and at some point, he'd lost it. 

It takes everything he has not to cry and when he blindly reaches for Damian, it's more than his hand that he gets. The kid's in his arms and it feels like home. Tim allows himself the leave to dampen Damian's sleeve while he whispers his thanks again and again and when he finally releases Damian he sees the redness in Damian's cheeks, the proudness hidden behind the embarrassment and Tim knows he's been right to put some of his cards on the table with Damian. 

He'd never imagined honesty would be the key with him. He sees it now though and he knows he'll never forget it.


	25. Chapter 25

Tim grumbles as the line doesn't budge despite three people going out the main doors of the Value Club. Jason stands a little too close and Tim's actually surprisingly okay with that. He takes a risk and loops his arm through Jason's. Their cart is full of gifts Jason says they can afford and Tim takes his word for it. He wonders if Jason has some kind of illicit business to add to their income these days, but he doesn't ask. Mainly because he doesn't want the answer. But it seems like they have more surplus than he'd have thought. That or he was just that disgustingly bad at budgeting.

He sucks in a deep breath and Jason's hand clasps his own, squeezes a little and Tim counts to three, releases his breath and repeats it a few times. He reads the words on the end of Dick's Christmas gift box backwards, spelling each word out backwards as slowly as he can. 

He's learning to cope without the app.

They move up three steps in line and Tim keeps reading the box until they're four people back in line from the cashier. He squeezes Jason's hand and looks up at him to find a fond look in Jason's eyes. They move up another place in line and Tim separates from him, skirting around the cart to start putting their stuff on the conveyor belt. The old woman in front of him mentions how _darling_ the sweater he got for Titus is and then asks how big the dog in question is. 

Tim laughs and gestures how enormous Titus is in comparison to himself. " _Huge_." The old woman beams at him and tells him about how she bought a teacup poodle and it turned out to be an actual poodle and now she has this giant dog. Tim laughs himself stupid and when he looks up Jason's eyes are glittering and there's a smile on his lips and he finds himself completely stuck in Jason's orbit. He can't stop staring and it isn't until the old woman touches his shoulder and tells him Merry Christmas that he realizes he's zoned out on her and has been staring at Jason through three checkouts. 

He blushes like a teenager and thanks her and tells her he hopes her dog is warm and happy and she hands him a shopping bag and just smiles and tells him to take care of the huge dog. He peers inside as she leaves, entirely stunned, and finds a huge box of milk bones. He looks up and she's gone and it takes Jason nudging him out of the way of the credit card machine for him to come back into himself. 

Some random old woman just gave him a gift for his dog. Well... Damian's dog. He is _absolutely_ not going to cry in Value Club. He will not.

He blinks back the tears and helps Jason load the cart and clutches the dog treats like this present was for him. Jason all but steers him out of the store and into the parking lot. They climb in the car after it's loaded and Tim sits with the treats in his lap, staring at them with something that feels like awe. Jason reaches over and gently takes his chin in between thumb and forefinger, turns his head, and Tim feels like the earth stands still as their lips meet for the barest few seconds.

Jason's gone before Tim can react and they're backing out of the parking space like nothing happened and he just puts his hand on his lips and he sits there and lets himself cry. They're not bad tears. He's not even upset. He cries because he's overwhelmed and he feels like he's going to explode with happiness. He'd have never thought months ago that this could be a thing. That he and Jason would be _a thing_ or that he'd be getting gifts from old ladies in Value Club or even that he'd manage to get to a store anytime in this century.

He wipes his cheeks and he holds the treats and he thinks to himself: this is what people mean when they say they're content. He wants to hold onto it forever.

He knows he can't.

But he's not going to let that stop him anymore, either.


	26. Chapter 26

Christmas day is unexpectedly beautiful - all clear skies and only the remnants of snow from a few days prior on the ground. The night is supposed to bring more snow, but for now, it's calm as can be. Tim remembers patrolling on snowy nights and some part of him misses it, but he doesn't let himself dwell on it. He knows Jason went out last night and he's pretty sure he knows why given a few of the things on his news feed this morning. They also don't talk about it.

Tim settles in the car, content to let Jason drive as he's taken possession of the giant bowl of mashed potatoes between his feet and the green bean casserole in his lap. He'd be lying if he said the large box hitting him in the back of the knees isn't Titus' milk bones. He smiles and watches the world go by.

He's a bit nervous, he knows it’s the first time he'll be seeing Bruce since his last incident and while he hasn't heard a word from him, he's pretty sure Bruce has heard all about his former Robin's mental break. After all it's pretty obvious when your adopted son stops showing up to work, flunks out of most of his college classes, and stops patrolling at night all at once. 

Tim thinks he may not survive tonight without Jason's help. He just hopes to God the fact that they're showing up _together_ doesn't set off another bomb. 

By the time they arrive at the manor his chest is tight and he's already having trouble breathing. When Jason comes around to help him get out, he stares up at him in silence, fear clogging his throat and he almost wants to beg Jason to take him home and leave him there. 

He doesn't.

Jason hands off their food when Dick and Damian come out the door and he kneels next to the car after shooing them off and takes Tim's hand in his own. "Talk to me."

"Bruce." Tim says his name like it's painful to speak and honestly, he can admit that it is. It's painful to think the man that took him in after his father died and went to all the trouble to adopt him doesn't think his pain is real enough to warrant any discussion. He feels sick.

Jason's hands frame his face and Tim closes his eyes. "You don't have to go in if you don't want to, we can drop off gifts and go home. Is that what you want to do?"

"No!" Tim feels hysterical. He clutches Jason hard enough he knows it should be hurting, but he can't make his fingers loosen his grip.

"Okay. It's okay. We'll stay." He can't let go and Jason's talking, but there's only rushing in Tim's ears.

Another face appears in his vision and suddenly Damian is crowding the space with him and one of his hands is pried off of Jason and Damian's clutching his hand like he wants to break it and Tim shudders as relief slides through him. He loosens his grip on Jason's arm and tightens his hand in Damian's. The rushing sound recedes and he stares at Damian, something else lodged in his throat. He owes this kid so much. He owes him and Jason and Dick and God... how did he never see how much all these people care about him before?

Damian's free hand lightly touches his shoulder and then the touch retreats. "Can you talk about it or do you just want us to not mention it?"

Tim slumps against the seat, all the fight drained out of him. He still clutches Damian's hand like if he doesn't it'll be the end of the world, still holds loosely onto Jason's arm, but he doesn't feel like his emotions are pulling the strings anymore. He closes his eyes. "Bruce hasn't talked to me since... before."

Jason makes an angry sort of sound, but Damian clicks his tongue. "He is an imbecile."

Tim makes a strangled noise and he's not sure if he's agreeing or laughing or choking. He rolls his head against the seat and sighs. "I don’t want everything ruined because he brings it up... so I guess I figured I'd just ruin it myself." He opens his eyes and stares at his and Damian's hands.

Damian nearly gives him whiplash when he jerks his head around to force him to look at him. "You did _not_ ruin anything. Stop this immediately."

Tim can feel Jason bristling. He strokes Jason's arm and hopes it's enough to call him off. He breathes and stares up at Damian, at the spark of anger in his eyes, at the way he looks like he most protective person in the entire world and he feels lucky. 

"I'll try." It's all he can promise.

Damian pushes a hand back into his hair, almost seems to pet him for a moment and then lets him go and ducks out of the car. "I will start unloading the car."

The sound of the trunk popping pulls Tim's attention back to Jason. He sees worry in his eyes and he gives him a small smile, reaches for him and accepts it when Jason pulls him out of the car and into his embrace. He waits until Damian's inside with a load of gifts before speaking. "He does things differently than you or Dick, but his method works too. Sometimes I just need a wakeup call and he gives me that. He's been really tender with me in the past, too. I think he knows all of us better than we think he does."

Jason's tense shoulders relax and Tim leans against him, tucks his hands in Jason's jacket pockets and rubs his cheek against his soft shirt where Jason's left his jacket open. Jason's hands are warm on his back and Tim feels safe. Warm and safe. He wants to sleep right here. He wonders if Jason would let him.

Tim thinks he might.

They untangle themselves and make the walk inside with the last load of gifts and Tim smells gingerbread on the air, almost tastes the buttercream frosting he's certain is somewhere in there and he's beaming again by the time he gets to the lounge. They stack their gifts under the tree and Tim plops himself down next to Titus, tugs over the box with his treats and rips it open. He feeds a whole handful to him and lets him slobber all over his hand as he does it. 

When he looks up he finds Damian watching him with an arched eyebrow, Jason behind him trying not to laugh, and Dick lounging in the doorway effectively becoming a roadblock for one Bruce Wayne. Tim doesn't know if it's intentional or not, but he savors the moment before giving the dog affectionate ear rubs and starting to murmur the story to the dog more than anyone else about the old woman who gave him the treats. 

Damian kneels next to him and Jason's suddenly on his other side and Tim feels like he has the best watch dogs on the planet since they're both clearly bristling, waiting on what Bruce has to say now that he's pushed his way past Dick's attempt at keeping him out.

Dick looks apologetic and Tim just smiles placidly up at his adoptive father. "Merry Christmas." He says it because he doesn't know what else to say. He thinks prom wasn't this awkward and he went with someone who wasn't his girlfriend since she'd been very much not in the same state at the time.

Bruce's smile is forced, as it always is, and Tim finds familiarity in that. He accepts it for what it is, an attempt at being emotional, and he goes back to showering Titus with affection. Bruce stands there a purely unacceptable amount of time and Tim itches to ask him what the hell he wants. He doesn't say a word.

It comes surprisingly quickly and when it does, it stings. "Have you gotten over yourself then?"

Jason's up before Tim can think to stop him. He's in Bruce's face and even Damian looks like he's watching a particularly terrifying explosion. 

"You have _no right_! Don't think you can waltz your way back into his life, pretend to care with your fake bullshit, and then ask questions like that!" Jason's actually jabbing Bruce in the chest to punctuate his words and Tim's _been_ on the receiving end of this before. It's been years, but he remembers the intensity of it that just doesn't convey to those standing outside of it. He swallows and waits on the brawl.

It doesn't come.

Bruce looks shocked, backs off a few steps, and Tim's honestly never seen him look like this. He sees true fear in Bruce's eyes for a split second before he sees the stone-cold wall go up. Once Bruce shuts down no one's getting anywhere with him.

Except...

Alfred sets down a tray of cookies with particularly punctual force, startling them all. "I think we are all done antagonizing one another." Alfred's hand is clearly gentle on Jason's shoulder and his glare is laser-precise on Bruce. "If you have any apologies you'd like to say, I'd suggest they be said now."

Bruce clears his throat and Tim's never really seen him look this cowed. He revels in it a little bit when Bruce manages an apology that doesn't really fix anything. Tim lets it slide and decides he's always known who his family is and who it isn't, even if he's wearing the name belonging to someone who isn't tacked on behind his own. 

He thinks that maybe he doesn't wear the name for Bruce anymore. His eyes find Damian and he sees how the kid's still watching him, still looks like he wants so badly to follow in Jason's footsteps on this one. Tim wants to hug him, wants to thank him. 

He settles on deciding the Wayne part of his name is there for Damian.

The tension eases in the room and Bruce moves off to his usual chair. Dick plucks up cookies and passes them out and Damian gets up to help Jason pass out the gifts. Tim remembers the first year they started doing them before dinner. He remembers how upset he'd been and how Alfred had put the rule in place just to try to cheer him up. It hadn't worked that year, but it has managed at least a smile every year thereafter. 

He opens his gifts and he lets the memories crowd in on him, lets them wash over him like a balm for his soul, and when they all gather in the dining room, he's not even upset about the way Bruce stares at them when he leans his head on Jason's shoulder and curls his arm around Jason's. He stares right back until Bruce looks away and then he nuzzles into Jason's arm. 

His best gift this year is right here, right beside him. Right around him really. 

He doesn't let go.


	27. Chapter 27

When everything falls down around him again, Tim doesn't expect it. 

He feels fine when he goes to bed. He's felt okay for weeks and he's been coping really well. He uses the tactics from his app and a few others he's found online in his everyday life and it feels like he's got his shit together. He follows his notes to get through the morning, feels like he's actually living by the time he gets to work, and finds peace in Jason's presence when he gets home. Sure, he still has his moments, still finds himself with a too hot mug or an ice cold shower full-blast in his face at times. But it's been easier to step back outside of it once he's exercised the right to do such a thing.

So when he wakes up in a cold sweat on his bedroom floor, his heart in his throat, tears streaming down his face, and his cock straining between his thighs, he doesn't expect it.

Tim scratches at the sheets until they free him from their binding misery and he tries to keep himself quiet. He squeezes his eyes shut and he tries to pretend this isn't happening again. He's been taking his pills, he's been doing everything right, he shouldn't be here right now.

His mind rallies against him and his body trucks on forward and he needs to make himself hurt so he doesn't find his end in his pajamas. He can't breathe. 

His vision fades to a blur and he wants to scream but he can't even get a breath in. 

He breathes.

He immediately starts sobbing and he can't make it stop. He's shaking on the floor and his stupid body is still trying to betray him and he can't even think long enough to try to calm himself down. Tim reaches for his dresser and he doesn't know what he wants, but he jars the whole thing and he's showered in half the items from the top of it and he wails because it's all his mind can think to do.

Jason's there. Tim can hear him. He can't see him, but then he can't see anything past the tears. He can smell him and his traitorous body lets him know about it.

Jason touches him and Tim snaps away from him like he's been electrocuted. He chokes on spit and he feels like he must look like a rabid dog right now. He crowds as close to under his bed as he can and he trembles and sobs. 

He can't stop.

He doesn't even notice that Jason left, but he sees his feet when he comes back. He sees the offered pill and the plastic cup of water and he snatches the pill away from Jason like he's terrified of him. He knows why. He knows it's the remnants of the dream and he knows his body and mind are overreacting, but every time he gets like this he feels like he's being beaten half to death. He feels weak and vulnerable and the more rational side of his mind tells him at least he's not outwardly violent at times like these.

The pill dissolves under his tongue and it takes a while before he's lying on the floor, panting, his body feeling like a dead weight and his breath hitching into his chest. 

Jason sits on the floor next to him and it takes everything Tim has to slide his hand across the floor and stretch his pinky finger out. He hopes Jason gets the point because he's not sure what will happen if he goes for more than that. 

Jason gently hooks their pinky fingers together and Tim focuses on his breathing. 

Tim wants to tell Jason everything. He wants to tell him he's never going to be alright, that he's always going to be like this. He wants to tell him how bad it hurt to take a beating like he did and how small he felt because he couldn’t fight back or he'd give away who he was. He wants to explain that this is going to happen every time he gets aroused and that at best he'll end up in the bathroom floor, half-crazed and sobbing; that, at worst, he'll scream until he can't breathe anymore, until the cops come and they have to move again so the neighbors don't hate them. 

He wants to beg Jason's forgiveness for dreaming about him like he has. He wants to scald his throat with coffee and he wants to stand under the heat of the shower until he strips his skin away. 

He arches his neck back and tries to convince himself he's choking. He's not and his body refuses him today.

He tries to gag and just ends up coughing. He wants so badly to hurt in a way he can control and yet he wants to be like everyone else who doesn't need any of these things. He wants to punish himself and he wants to suffer and he wants to be happy and he never wants to be happy again.

He lays there and he cries instead. 

Tim knows he's a freak. He's always known.

For reasons he cannot begin to fathom... Jason stays.


	28. Chapter 28

If nothing else Tim is grateful his body decided to betray him over the weekend. He takes a sick day on Monday and he waits on Jason to wake up. He knows this is going to be hard, but he can't keep stringing Jason along if he's going to be like this. Tears keep spilling down his cheeks and he swipes at them with irritation. He winds the cord of an old controller around his hand, pulls it tight, releases it, and repeats. 

Jason wakes up just past seven and Tim waits until he's used the bathroom before he calls him over, his voice wavering even on the two syllables of Jason's name. He sees the worry etch itself into Jason's face and he wishes he weren't giving him bad news. He wishes he could tell him he loves him and he wants to be with him forever - because he does. God, he does. He wants to open his mouth and tell him he's better, that he's all fixed and he's not a damn disaster anymore.

He can't lie to Jason.

The tears keep coming and he isn't sure how he finds his voice, but when he starts talking, it just won't stop pouring out of him. "I feel like I owe you an explanation and I... I owe you so much more than that. I'll never be able to properly thank you for all you've done for me." He sees fear in Jason's eyes. He pushes on like he doesn't see it.

"I don't really know how to say this. It's messed up and it's probably less than you'd expect to have fucked me up this bad, but I guess that just shows how weak I am." He laughs. He doesn't mean to laugh. He sees anguish on Jason's face. He pushes forward.

"I can't even remember how old I was. Old enough I was dating this girl, Ari. I thought for sure I loved her. Maybe I did, I don't know. Young enough I had no idea what I was doing, but old enough Bruce let me be Robin by myself." He thinks he should know what age he was. He wonders if he forgot on purpose. He doesn't do the math. It's answer enough. "So I wasn't paying her enough attention, too focused on Robin and all that. I had my own shit and I didn't know how to balance anything," he pauses, realizes he still doesn't, sighs and closes his eyes. It'll be easier in the dark.

"I missed some stuff that happened in her life that really shook her. I didn't even notice anything was wrong. I guess I didn't expect things to be on my doorstep like that, you know? But I show up one night when she calls me for a date and she's home alone and I remember asking her like half a dozen times if that was okay, thinking I shouldn't be over with a girl alone in her house. It went against everything I'd been taught. I was pretty sure her Aunt and Uncle would disapprove. She told me it was fine, they were at some play... or the opera... or something." His mind is fuzzy and he realizes just how much he's let slip through his grasp over the years. He wonders how bad it really was if this is all he has left.

"She spent all night flirting with me, but I was too dumb to figure it out so she disappears into the bathroom, right? And I start thinking I should just go. She's in there forever and I finally ask her if she's okay and she comes out and she's in this nighty. She tries to get in my pants and I panicked. Not like... how I do now. Like how a teenage boy does when they don't know what to do. I fumbled over my words and I may have even slightly insulted her while trying to explain to her that I was _not_ ready." He opens his eyes. Jason looks mad. Tim takes a moment to explore the expression and he wonders just who Jason's mad at in this scenario.

"She gets the point and we end up talking. She tells me all about the shit that happened to her and I end up with my arm around her on the couch and I remember wondering if that was what love felt like and she leaned in and kissed me and it was so... innocent. It wasn't anything untoward. My hands weren't on anything but her shoulder. I wasn't leaning toward her. Her Aunt and Uncle... they came home early and that's what they walked in on. Her in a nighty, us kissing... I know how it looked. I'm not stupid." Tim's hands are shaking. He feels the lump growing in his throat. The easy part is done. 

"Her Uncle... Vari... he just fuckin' _tripped_. Went completely berserk. He starts screaming and before I know it, he has me by the throat. Everything in me tells me to fight him, you know? Like he's threatening my life, he's screaming how he's gonna kill me, and Ari's shouting and crying and her Aunt is losing her mind. I know I can't fight him because I'll give away my secret. He'll figure out I'm Robin and from there it'll be like me figuring out Dick and then knowing it was Bruce, you know? I couldn’t do that to Bruce. I couldn’t expose him like that. so I did nothing. I let him strangle me, I let him..." he falls silent, he swallows. His dreams never include this part, like even his subconscious is too afraid of remembering it. He always _feels_ it though. His voice is tiny when he starts talking again. "I let him beat me. I remember telling myself not to cry, not to scream, not to give him the satisfaction. He beat me worse than anyone else ever has and by the time I blacked out, I honestly thought I was going to die to keep my secret." He's silent, he isn't sure how he's not already in the bathroom losing his mind. The tears still track down his face and he takes in a hitching breath and he forces himself to continue.

"I'm broken, Jason. I'm a fucking disaster and I don't think I can fix it. I dream he's choking me half the time and the other times I'm dreaming things I should be allowed to, things my body and mind want to do, but I _can't_ , and I lose it. I wake up screaming or I wake up and piss the fucking bed because I can _feel_ him beating me again. I... I don't think I'll ever be able to give you what you deserve... or what I want to, or any of it. I can't even be with _myself_ , how the hell am I supposed to be with someone else?" He's barely breathing, he's shaking, he feels like he's ripping his own heart out with his bare hands. He feels shredded and open. He feels like he's going to hurl.

Jason says nothing. Tim stares at him and he sees an anger unlike any he's ever seen before. Jason stands up and Tim tries not to flinch, he really does. He flinches anyway.

"I'm going to kill him." He says it through his teeth. He looks ready to do it, too. Tim manages a choked out, "He's already dead," and he sees something else flash in Jason's eyes, but he can't put a name to it until he hears the half-snarled, "Not that piece of shit. Bruce. I'm going to fucking murder him for not doing right by you. What the fuck was he thinking making a _kid_ think his life was less important than his fucking secret?" Jason's angry, angrier than Tim's seen him in a very long time.

It's grounding somehow. He draws in a hitching breath and he reaches for Jason's hand and it's like something switches inside Jason. Instantly, he's there, he's kneeling in front of Tim and he's holding onto his fingertips with both hands and he looks worried. "Tell me what I can do."

Tim feels like everything's upside down. Jason's supposed to be angry at him, not at Bruce. He's supposed to hate Tim for stringing him along, for never telling him he can't ever have sex with him. He's supposed to walk out the door and never come back and Tim's supposed to die alone in this room right here and-

The tears flood from his eyes and he tips his head back and sobs. He sobs because no one's ever supposed to understand like this, because he's never done a damn thing in his life to deserve someone like Jason. He can't breathe and it's only pressure on his fingers that makes him suck in another breath. Jason starts counting by nineteens and Tim follows along in his mind until he can say them out loud and he takes over. He says them until he runs out of enough give-a-shit to keep going. He curls up on his side on the couch and he stares at Jason and he asks the only question left to ask.

"Aren't you going to leave me now?"

He watches Jason's heart break as if it's happening in slow motion. He aches for him and he doesn't expect the shimmer of tears in Jason's eyes or the watery way he whispers, "We're in this together. Neither of us are alone now."

Tim's heart shatters and then it stitches back together and he reaches for Jason with both hands and he pulls him in until he's breathing against his shirt, until he's pretty sure he's trying to burrow inside of Jason and never come back out. He cries until he can't cry anymore and when he eases back against the cushions, he still doesn't expect it when Jason's palm lightly cups his cheek and he whispers, "I could never leave you behind." 

Tim thought he knew what love felt like. He's fairly certain he's told himself he's been in love in the past. He knows he was lying every other time because this... this is what it should feel like.

He curls his hand in Jason's shirt and he tries not to let his voice waver when he says, "It's a torture worse than any other to think of giving you up." Jason swallows and Tim wishes he could kiss him right then, wishes he wouldn't flip out if he did it. Instead he clutches Jason's shirt tighter and lowers his head to his chest and listens to his heart beat. 

He feels lucky. Lucky he has Jason, lucky he hasn't died any of the times he's wanted to. Lucky Uncle Vari didn't kill him. Lucky he has people who care about him. Lucky that the pit gave Jason back.

Maybe one day he can care about himself just as much.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: vomit again... I think I'm torturing myself.

Tim doesn't really remember getting in bed. Hell, he doesn't even remember anything past his confession to Jason. His mouth tastes like he's eaten bacon at some point and he sort of smells like coffee and he's pretty sure he's spiraling again. He checks the time and groans. He's late. Like four hours late.

He shoves out of bed, yanks his phone off the charger, and stumbles into the bathroom. He shuts the door and lets his phone clatter to the counter in favor of fulfilling his bladder's urgent request to empty it. He feels tired in the bone deep sort of way that speaks of either intense emotional turmoil or having gone too hard in the field the night before. He knows damn well he hasn't been out.

The guilt swells up in him again and he tries to stuff it back down. He stands there for what feels like forever, listens to his breathing getting louder and louder, feels his muscles tensing, feels like he's going to pass out. Guilt clogs his throat and it doesn't take much for him to get on his knees and gag. 

He tries to throw up. He tries everything short of shoving his hand in his mouth to do it. He doesn't do that. He's not sure if that's a victory or not.

The world tips in his vision and he feels nausea swell up and he feels _victorious_. He forces the issue, vomits because he can, because his body cooperates. 

By the time he's done, he's not sure he can stand. He strips right where he is and crawls into the shower, sits against the freezing tiles and wonders how he deserves to live. He's such a failure. He always has been. He can't even keep his mind together when things are perfect. He has to go and ruin it just like he ruins everything else. 

Tim leans over and tries to throw up again. He gags and coughs and nothing comes up. He can't even make himself spit. He cries instead. He cries until he's sobbing, sobs until he's shaking, shakes until he's gagging again. Still, nothing comes.

He turns the shower on out of anger. At least he's pretty sure it's anger. The water is freezing and he leaves it that way. It's less obvious than if he burns himself. He's already shaking. It isn't enough.

Some part of him asks if he could force himself to drown by just opening his mouth and sitting with his face in the spray. He knows the answer is no. He's tried before just to see if his body would take over. It does.

He doesn't try this time.

Tim doesn't wash in the water. He sits and he does absolutely nothing other than let the water pelt him. His body feels sluggish, unresponsive. He understands he's too cold. 

Nothing in him cares.

He jerks awake when the door opens and he doesn't protest when Jason turns off the water, drapes a towel over his hair, and then sets about flushing the toilet and spraying air freshener in the room. Jason kneels next to him and Tim stares at him. "Are you okay if I help you up?"

He considers why Jason is asking, he realizes it's one of the few times in his life he's been asked if someone can touch him. He nods if only because someone asked for once. Jason hauls him to his feet, wraps a robe around him and leads him into the living room. Tim stares at the digital readout on his entertainment center telling him he's five hours late to work. Jason sits on the coffee table in front of him, blocking his view of the numbers.

"I called in for you hours ago, let them know you have the flu." Jason lied for him. Tim isn't sure how to feel about that. He settles on warm and he holds onto it as long as he can before it floats away. "Is this one of those times where Damian's way of doing things would work better?"

Tim considers it, feels numb. He forces his mind to answer, feels his mouth move like it's separate from him. "Yes."

Jason stands up and when he comes back, he's holding a pair of track pants and a tank top. He tosses them on the couch. "Get dressed, we're going to the gym downstairs."

"I have the flu," Tim points out, knowing he doesn't. He wants to see what Jason will say.

"I have the cameras on a private feed, did that the day we moved in. Management has a loop of the twelve busiest days they've ever had and one dead day randomized." He sighs, scrubs a hand through his hair. "Get up."

Tim does it, he gets up and dresses and stands there feeling like a marionette waiting on his next string to be pulled. Jason silently hands him his shoes and socks and Tim puts them on without being asked. He sees the sadness in Jason's eyes and he isn't sure he can keep seeing it there. He looks away and he instantly misses seeing Jason.

He doesn't look back.

Jason leads the way to the gym, hands Tim one of the pre-bottled health drinks from the vending machine just inside the door, and he drinks it purely out of reflexive habit. His muscle memory tells him he needs this before facing anyone on the training mats. He doesn't see any training mats, only treadmills and bicycles and weights. He sits on the bike and he forces his body into compliance. It burns and it feels like returning home.

He keeps going until he feels sick. He stops and changes to the weights. Jason silently follows him, spots him and changes his weight amounts for him as they work. He's weaker than he used to be, but it's not by as much as he'd have expected. A lot of it can be chalked up to how he's been treating his body; he knows that with a certainty that's nearly overwhelming. He pushes himself until he feels like his muscles are jumping, until he knows he's going to fail if he keeps going.

Jason takes the weight away and Tim knows it's because he wouldn't have stopped on his own. He tries to get back on the bike, but Jason steers him out the door instead. They stand in the elevator and Tim feels numb. He feels less numb than this morning. 

He closes his eyes and he tries to tell something in his mind he should work out when he feels like this instead of spending hours in the bathroom trying to throw up. 

He knows he'll at least try. He just isn't sure if it'll work.

Jason doesn't lead him through the day like he has at some points, rather he points at things and demands Tim do them. He gets told to do his laundry, gets the bag of his own dirty clothing shoved against his chest when he neglects to move from the couch. 

Tim does the laundry.

Jason walks him through it one instruction at a time. They eat lunch because Jason shoves a plate in front of him and points at it and demands, "Eat," with about as much conviction as he'd put into demanding answers from some uncooperative source. The process repeats itself for dinner and Jason doesn't comment when Tim curls up on the couch to sleep instead of going to his bedroom. 

When he's told to sleep, he closes his eyes. He feels the warmth of the throw Jason's put over the back of their couch settle over him at some point and he fades in and out for far longer than he wants to. When sleep comes, it's fraught and on the edge of not being sleep at all, but somewhere deep inside he knows it's better than nothing. 

Because something's always better than nothing.


	30. Chapter 30

It's not that he's better. He isn't. He's still knee-deep in the hell that is his own depression and anxiety and bullshit. He feels weighed down by it as if it's a physical weight that sits on his shoulders and bears down on him until he can't breathe anymore. He's pushed through before and he pushes through now. 

The boardroom is loud around him. He feels like he doesn't belong here, but he asked for his job back and he'll be damned if he doesn't do his best. His best apparently includes paying more attention to the people in the room than what's going on in the meeting or even taking the minutes like he should be. He watches one guy - was his name Tom or Gary - readjust the cuffs of his shirt about eight times too many. He knows how to read people; the guy's nervous as all get out. Tim feels for him, knows his next meeting is the one where he presents for the first time. He flicks his eyes over to the new intern in the room, watches her hand go up under her sleeve, hears the barely there, muffled snap of a rubber band against skin. He watches her do it repeatedly.

He sees the scars on her other wrist peek out from under her sweater. He understands.

The woman beside her clicks her pen too many times. The man to her right looks angry about this fact. Tim predicts four more meetings until she magically has no more clickable pens in her desk. He wonders what nervous tick will come next. He wonders if it's the glue holding her together like his coffee held him together for so many years.

He sees Damian shift his feet just slightly on the carpet, sees it repeat four times before he settles. He sees nerves there.

Tim feels tired. He wants to leave and sleep forever. He wants to tell everyone to go home and sprawl out on the table and pass out. He wants to sleep right for one damn night in his life.

Tim resists the urge to rest his forehead on the table, only barely.

The meeting finally dismisses and he listens to the rapid snap of the girl's rubber band before she stands up and grabs the papers she's been tasked with and hurries out of the room. Tim makes a note on his calendar, marks it private, that ensures he will check up on her at least once a week. He waits until everyone else is gone, double-checks that the room is free for half an hour and quietly asks Damian to stay and close the door.

Damian does and when he sits back down, Tim can see the worry in his eyes. He knows Tim's gone under again.

Tim lays his head on the desk because Damian's already seen his worst and he doesn't fear what he may think about this particular lapse. He closes his eyes and starts talking. "The new intern-"

"Dana."

"Yes... we need to keep tabs on her, make sure she's okay."

"I already am." Damian sounds pained, Tim cracks open an eye and studies him. "I knew before I hired her what you're about to tell me."

"You... hired her." Tim lets the words come like he's tasting them on his tongue. He examines how he feels and finds it's surprise that's most prevalent. "She's your help then. I thought you were hiring a full-time employee."

"I hired a full-time intern instead." Damian sounds defensive. 

Tim tones down the way he's saying words. He can't regulate right now like he usually would. He's tired. He wants to sleep.

"There's this app I use, it's called Calm Harm. Jason gave it to me and it actually does help." When he uses it. "We should put it on the company phones, send an email to the workforce about it." He sniffs. "We need to make sure it's not tracked and ensure everyone knows that. Provide actual proof that it's not or they won't use it." He pauses and then smiles a little. "Make a tutorial that they have to do for corporate training on it. The breathing exercise maybe. It'll force them to know it's there."

"She already has a coping mechanism, I know you saw it." Damian sounds perfectly calm, quiet, if a bit nervous beneath that.

"One coping skill is never enough. I have dozens and look where I am right now." Tim closes his eyes again. "Just... let's do it."

Damian makes a little noise of acquiescence and Tim tries not to fall asleep on the desk. 

"You're exhausted, go home."

"I can't just keep being out or you'll have to fire me."

"I do not fire people." Damian sounds exasperated now. "You are well aware Tam does that and she's not about to fire _you_ , of all people."

"It's unfair."

"You're a freaking _heir_ , Tim. Most things are unfair when it comes to that." Damian stands up. "Get the hell up and go home."

Tim rubs his face on the desk and forces himself to sit up, trying to blink reality back into focus. He murmurs, "I'll just grab coffee and work on getting the app on the phones untracked."

Damian looks blurry and angry. He doesn't say a word, but Tim gets the idea that he's supposed to go home. He tries again. "I'll grab some coffee, _go home_... and work on the app from there."

Damian looks put upon, but he just shrugs this time. "Do as you will." Tim feels like there's something unsaid in that statement. 

He doesn't ask.

He leaves about twenty minutes later, hot coffee in hand, his hands only minutely shaking, and his heart in his throat. He needs to use his app. 

He doesn't.


	31. Chapter 31

Tim counts his steps on the treadmill. Jason's beside him on the other one, pounding proverbial asphalt. Tim isn't sure if it's because he's coming out the other side of his spiral or if he's just more in tune with Jason this morning, but he knows Jason's running away from something like this. He knows the haunted look in his eyes and he knows the thin press of Jason's lips this morning when he quietly suggested they hit the gym despite it being a Saturday morning. 

Tim watches Jason in the mirror, watches his body relax into the workout and he gives himself leave to _look_ at Jason for the first time in a while. He's still all hard lines, built like a brick house, thighs thick as hell, and shoulders Tim's almost certain have been blessed by a god. He's sweaty and determined and Tim wants to stare at him for the rest of his life.

He looks away.

He remembers the painting he's neglected to hang, tries not to tear up just thinking about it. He'll hang it this afternoon, right in the hallway outside his room. He wets his lips and starts his cooldown, his pace gradually slowing. Jason's still going hard.

Tim lets him.

He read somewhere that _normal_ people do this to work out their stress. They go to the gym and work out until their brain shuts the hell up and gives them half a second of peace. Virtually no one will admit it, but Tim knows it's true. He sees it in Jason now and he's seen it in other people in the past. He wishes he could remember he should do this instead of scalding his throat with coffee or trying to burn his body away in the shower. He supposes it'd be better than forcing himself to throw up until he can't breathe anymore. 

He moves to the weights and Jason starts cooldown while Tim racks up how much he wants to lift today. He does deadlifts instead and Jason still comes around to spot him. Tim's not sure why until he looks up into the face of a man who needs the distraction and he lets it pass without comment.

When he's done, he spots Jason, watches his muscles bulge and stretch and he starts letting his vision haze when the first curl of warmth enters his stomach. He wants to appreciate Jason's form, but he knows it has to come in little bouts or he'll lose it. 

They finish before his cock is stiff and he takes out his app in the elevator and he chooses to Distract and selects _How many European capital cities can you think of?_

Luxembourg, Minsk, Sarajevo, Brussels, Prague, Copenhagen, Amsterdam, Oslo, Paris, Athens, Helsinki, Budapest, Reykjavik - he loves trying to spell Reykjavik - Berlin, Warsaw, Bucharest, Lisbon, Moscow, Dublin, Rome, London, Kiev, Stockholm - how could he possibly forget that one - Madrid, Bratislava - he thinks of Euro Trip and almost laughs - Belgrade, the Vatican City, Monaco, Skopje - has he already thought of Vienna, he's not sure - Tirana - he gets stuck for long enough the elevator arrives and he closes the app, tucks his phone away and walks with Jason down the hallway.

They're inside before he remembers Baku and that there's Slovenia's capital that he's never been able to pronounce, but he can spell it. He whispers, "L-j-u-b-l-j-a-n-a," under his breath and Jason doesn't ask. 

He flops on the couch and squints, trying to remember what he's left out. Has he thought of Valletta yet? Skopje? He thinks he did that one. Podgorica, then. Something to do with a villa... no that's how he remembered it as a kid. Andorra la Vella. Behind it come Astana and Pristina, Tbilisi and Tallinn. Has he left out Nicosia? He thinks of Reykjavik again and lets the flutter of a laugh give him leave enough to look up at where Jason's hovering. He tilts his head. 

"Why are you spelling the capital for Slovenia? Is it one of the exercises?" Jason's voice is strained, Tim knows this feeling deep in his own throat. Jason's asking for help without asking. He pulls out his phone and opens the app, taps in his password, and points at the question on his screen. "Yeah, it forces your brain to re-orient." He thought Jason knew this. He knows Jason did. He also knows Jason's having a day today.

He pats the seat next to him and Jason slides in. Tim settles his phone on Jason's knee and taps on _Name an animal for every letter in the alphabet._ Jason looks incredulous, but Tim just gestures. "Try it. It feels dumb the first time, but it usually works."

Jason sighs. "Alligator. Bat. Chicken. Duck. Elephant. Fox. Goat. Hyena. Iguana. Jaguar. Kangaroo. Lemur. Mouse. Newt. Octopus. Pig. Quail. Rabbit." He pauses, makes a face. "Sheep. Toucan. Uh..." this time he looks clueless and sits there until he starts to look annoyed. 

"Uguisu, I had to look it up after trying the first time," Tim offers.

Jason looks mollified. "Uguisu. Vole. Walrus." He stares at Tim until he smiles. "I couldn't think of one, but I remembered Xenarthra is comprised of animals like sloths and armadillos and whatnot, so I just let it slide that it's not technically a single animal."

Jason shakes his head. "Too smart for your own good. Alright, Xenarthra... Yak. And Zebra, that's an easy one."

Tim smiles and glances down at the app. They've been out of time for a while now. He answers the question based on himself and goes back to the list. "Pick one."

He watches how Jason hesitates and then Jason's shoulders slump. He pulls out his phone and Tim watches while he finds the app and installs it on his own phone. "Fine, I grudgingly allow that it sort of works."

"Hmm... for the guy who put it on my phone you sure do take some coaxing." Tim just gives Jason a small smile when he looks up at him and he watches the way his eyes soften, sees the instant when he just accepts what's going on and makes no comment when Jason curls up on his side of the couch. Tim has to catch his phone to keep it from falling. 

He settles on his end and turns so their feet touch. Jason puts one on top of Tim's and Tim taps on a breathing exercise. In this house Saturdays are for mental breakdowns and app usage apparently. 

He's not sure he minds.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: very blunt thoughts about Religion from Tim here. Not meant to insult anyone, but just in case, here's the warning that it comes up.

Sunday. Some people use it as a day to visit God's house. Tim thinks he remembers that Jason used to in a world long, long ago. He wonders idly if that changed with his death. He thinks a benevolent God wouldn't let someone come back the way Jason did. He thinks he understands why Jason doesn't go now.

Tim doesn't go because he never could settle on what was _right_. He has no evidence that any one thing is correct or really that any of it isn't just something to calm the mind. He wonders if people who go to church are calmer than those who don't. It's an interesting study and he thinks perhaps there's a college course that goes over such things, though he fully believes it would be swayed depending on who is teaching it. Much like politics, he thinks it's hard to be completely non-partisan in such a discussion. 

He flicks idly through the channels and wishes he'd taken a shower after he and Jason hit the gym earlier. Jason hadn't and Tim hadn't wanted to either. He wants to now. He can smell his stink and he thinks perhaps it's less _his_ stink and more _their_ stink. The thought brings other thoughts to the forefront of his mind, things he's been trying to ignore. He thinks of how Jason smells in the morning after they've just woken up and he bumps into him in the hall. He thinks of what lies underneath the deodorant and the body wash and what he can only inherently call _Jason_.

His heart beats faster in his chest and he thinks of how he fell asleep on his shoulder last week and how much it had meant to wake up engulfed in the haze that he can only associate with being in Jason's realm. Sometimes he feels like he can reach out and touch Jason's aura. 

Jason's hand is resting on the nape of his neck, his arm supported by the couch. It's these small points of contact that satisfy them both some days. Today it's about to drive Tim out of his own skin with need. He needs more. He needs Jason's arms around him. He needs to kiss him. He needs-

Fire ignites under his skin and Tim can't breathe anymore. He wants with his entire being and he wishes he could say he regrets it that this happens more often than not now, but he doesn't want to ever regret a moment with Jason. He pulls away from his touch because he has to, not because he wants to. He sits on the edge of the couch and grips the edge until his knuckles are white. He pants for his every breath because he can't think to do anything else.

He closes his eyes and he sees the image of Jason just after a shower behind his eyelids. He sees the towel slung low and he sees things he wants and he wants to scream in frustration when he honestly _can't_ breathe anymore. He tries repeatedly to suck in air. He fails and fails and Jason's quiet voice starts the nines tables. 

Tim's mind grasps onto the words like they're a damn lifeboat and he speeds ahead in his mind, rushes until he trips over one and has to slow down to quickly calculate the next and the next and the next. He's shaking. 

He's breathing again.

He keeps going until it stops working. He starts counting ninety-degree angles in front of him, forces himself to concentrate on it. The fire under his skin dulls, the start of tightness in his pants eases. 

Tim keeps counting angles. 

Their neighbor's alarm clock starts blaring. Tim stops counting angles and closes his eyes to focus on breathing. Five seconds in, three second hold, five seconds out. He uses Mississippi's to count the seconds. He's always found that strange. He wonders how people in other countries are taught the same sort of method. Do they count Helsinki's? He finds the humor in that and something else eases up inside him.

He slumps. Jason gets up and comes back with water. Tim drinks it before Jason says a word.

"Want to talk about it?"

Jason doesn't ask often, but when he does, Tim's noticed it's because he thinks he caused it. He's not entirely wrong. 

Tipping over on his side, Tim puts his feet between them, puts the glass on the floor, and stares at the show that's muted on the television. He doesn't know what it is. It doesn't matter. 

"Wanted things that set it off."

Jason hums softly, doesn't press it, Tim finally offers, "Sometimes all I want is something stupid. Just to kiss you or whatever and then I just... lose control."

They're quiet. Tim isn't sure if he wishes Jason would say something or if he's happy he's not.

"I feel dumb."

"You have trauma leading the cart on this one, Tim. Of course it feels dumb... but it isn't."

Tim breathes and he tries to commit that to memory. He rubs a hand over his face and then leaves his fingers pressed to his lips. "I want to turn it all off so I can want something like a kiss and just... have it. No other reactions, just a kiss for what it is."

"If you turned off all that stuff, you probably wouldn't want the kiss anymore either, you know."

Tim considers it. The medications that actually function for such a reason don't necessarily turn off the desire to do it, they change the hormonal balance or inhibit the ability to gain an erection. He's studied them for their line of work in the past. Well... his _old_ line of work. He doubts Wayne Enterprises would be involved in that market. Honestly, he's not entirely sure.

He pulls out his phone and starts playing Sudoku. He's three puzzles in before he can speak again. "I don't want to stop wanting you. I just want to stop panicking when I do."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but have you considered therapy? Just for that part so it doesn't delve into the stuff we obviously can't talk about?"

Tim shrugs. He has; he's thought about it a lot. He's done research, but he can't guarantee that they wouldn't ask about things that would lead to his secret being exposed. "I think it would lead back to _why_ I didn't protect myself. How do I tell them I couldn't give my secret away without, you know, giving it away?" His voice sounds thick with emotion and he wants to swallow it down, wants to sound normal about this.

"I really hate what I'm about to say... but what if we asked Bruce to find us someone - that everyone can use - that _will_ keep our secrets?"

"And risk a Harley?"

Jason sighs this time. "Noted. If you're okay with it, I can do some research, see if there's anything else we can do..." he trails off and Tim gives a little nod, swallows the lump in his throat. "I'm going to shower."

He can feel Jason's worried look like it's glued to his skin, but Jason doesn't say anything to stop him. Tim appreciates that. He gets in the bathroom, strips, and reads his sign. 

_Reasonable temperatures. Deep breaths. You've got this._

He turns the shower on, twists the knobs to an appropriate temperature and doesn't scrub too hard. He washes and doesn't just stand there. He doesn't try to strangle himself on the water and he doesn't think about the things he can't do. 

He's got this.

He knows it's only temporary, but he'll take it.


	33. Chapter 33

It's a week before Jason sits Tim down with a beer and a sigh. Tim can almost see it coming. He takes in a deep breath, holds it, and releases it. He shivers on the exhale. There's a ninety seven percent certainty Jason's going to tell him what he's found. The other three percent involve things Tim _really_ doesn't want to think about. He'll take the talk about sex over those things.

"How are you feeling today?"

It's careful, it's calculated, and it's so very Jason to check before he delves in. Tim appreciates it. 

"Ready for the discussion I think is coming." Tim hopes he's right. He shifts, uneasy with the topics he knows are coming. So far he's not being set off, for which he's thankful.

Jason gives him a nod and cracks open his own beer, takes a healthy swig, and then shifts on the couch to face Tim a bit more. "Right, so I kind of had to be careful about the search terms, obviously, but I found a couple articles by some credible doctors that addressed how to get back into the, uh," he hesitates, " _swing of things_ after severe trauma of a sexual nature. I guess the first thing I'm going to address is this." He looks almost sad and Tim has to wonder what's coming. He nearly jumps in to tell Jason he hasn't been sexually assaulted, but Jason beats him to speaking. "Are you sure this is something you truly want to share with _me_? I mean... am I the one?" He looks like he's struggling. Tim can't blame him. "It's okay if I'm not. It's okay if no one ever is or if someone else is. I just need you to know that."

Tim takes a deep breath, gives Jason the consideration his question deserves. He refuses to think about the actual acts, but he thinks of how he feels about Jason.

Jason is his rock. He's the anchor in a deep sea storm that keeps Tim's ship steady. He's been there - _remained_ there - and he hasn't let Tim drown. 

That alone doesn't equal what Jason's asking, Tim knows this.

He considers how he's started to feel; the very depths of the _why_ of it. He loves Jason. Of that, he's certain. He wants to spend the rest of his life with him. Inherently, he knows it's not just about Jason saving him. It's about how they work together, how they've built a home and something of meaning for - what he hopes is - both of them. He hasn't _said_ it though.

He meets Jason's eyes, wraps his hands around the beer he still hasn't touched, and tries to pour everything he feels for Jason into his expression. "I'm in love with you, Jason." He shrugs, gives him a lopsided little smile. "So, yeah, you're the one I want to share anything I can with."

He watches the exact moment Jason's breath catches in his throat. He watches him tear up, sees him blink the tears away as he hides the most ridiculously gorgeous grin behind his hand. It takes him a minute to compose himself. "Damn, Tim... best damn thing I've ever heard." He lets his hand drop and smiles and it's warm and it's _home_. "Ya know, I think I'm in love with you, too."

Tim flushes. He can't _not_ blush. There's a lump in his throat and it's not the negative sort he's so used to. He swallows and it disappears and he leans his head back on the couch and just lets it sink in that Jason _loves_ him. His chest feels free and he feels like he's floating. It's the freedom before the oncoming storm of the discussion. He knows this. He savors it.

Jason lets him.

It's only when Tim lifts his head to look at Jason again, sobers his expression, and takes a swig of his beer that Jason clears his throat and continues. 

"Right, so, the thing that all of them seemed to agree on as a first step was for a discussion to take place. We can go slow about it, take however long it needs to take. Minutes, hours, days, _weeks_ \- it's fine. We can stop and start if you need to. If you need to stop talking about it, hold up your hand and we'll stop. You dictate when we start talking again. Does that work?"

Tim nods and Jason takes a deep breath. "We eventually need to cover things like: what you want the first step to be. What action, how do you want it to happen, what emotions do you feel are needed, how do we signal a stopping point. Then we talk about how it makes you feel just thinking about it. And then we basically... plan it, for a lack of a better word. Rinse and repeat for every step along the way."

It doesn't _sound_ horrible. In fact it sounds so coldly logical that Tim feels like it could actually work. He chews his lower lip only long enough to peel some dead skin off of it and then he nods. "Alright. When do you tell me what you want?"

"We can use the same method on those parts, too. But from a personal perspective, I honestly think I want the same things you do... or at least I suspect it's similar."

As long as Jason isn't getting left out, Tim's okay with this plan. He takes another drink and puts the bottle between his thighs. "Alright... I start I guess. I want-" he feels strangled already. This is ridiculous. He's said this exact thing before. It can't possibly be that difficult. Tim forces it out. "I want to kiss you."

Jason makes a small warm noise and Tim feels static under his skin. He _wants_. He's already hedging into dangerous territory. He needs to be logical and cut off the emotion of it. This is a discussion, not an action. He turns on Red Robin and he can feel the instant the mask settles over his skin. "Ideally, I'd like to sit next to you on the couch, have your arm around my shoulders, and turn my head and you lean down and kiss me."

He studies Jason, can see the edge to the way he's looking at him that tells him Jason knows he put the mask on for this. Blessedly, Jason doesn't call him on it.

"I'd like that very much. Describe how you would want the first time we kiss like that to be. Every detail you can without panicking."

"Soft." Tim feels the knot in his throat. It feels like lead has inserted itself there. He clutches the bottle a bit too hard. "Just... our lips," he can do this, he _can_ , "meeting." He has to stop, he feels strangled. He remembers at the last second to put his hand up and when he does, he leans over his knees and gasps for air. He's hot under his skin. He's thinking too much about this kiss, about how Jason will feel, how he'll taste, what he'll smell like that close. He's turned on.

Chills skitter up his spine and Tim clings to some fragile hope he's not about to start gagging. He won't let it happen. Not today, not tomorrow, not over this. 

He closes his eyes. He wants Jason like he's never wanted anyone else. He doesn't even want to be with himself like this. He knows it's different from before if only because of how much he feels _all the time_ now about Jason. It's no longer a solution to something, it's a desire.

It takes him what seems like forever before he stops gasping for air, before the lump in his throat dissipates, before his heart isn't slamming against his ribs. 

He takes a deep breath and sighs. "Sorry..."

"Absolutely nothing to be sorry about. I told you, we can go as slow as you need to, even if that means this is it for now." Jason sounds so sincere. It warms Tim's heart in a way he can't recall ever feeling before.

He takes a deep breath and spits out the rest of what he wanted to say. "I just want it to be brief. Just small pecks and then maybe a little longer if I'm not freaking out." His hands are shaking, he bows his head and tries not to cry. "God, Jason, I want you." He can't breathe again.

Jason holds out his hand, only his pinky extended. Tim hooks his around it and hangs on until he can breathe again. He glances at Jason and nods.

"Do you want anything specific leading up to it? In your mind, how does it happen in a situation where you don't panic? The ideal scenario?"

Tim swallows, thinks about it, and then imagines the day spread out before the part he doesn't think about yet. It forms in his mind's eye and he smiles softly as he closes his eyes and lets it solidify. "It's afternoon. A little cold outside, so I've been curled up next to you. You're warm and it's really nice. We're...." he tips his head, what were they doing? He looks around the mental image. "I'm on my phone and you're reading. There's eggnog and hot cocoa on the table, half finished. It's quiet. You slip your arm around me because I'm shivering a little." He feels the clog coming back up in his throat now. He pushes past it and it's a little easier this time. "I look up at you and whisper your name. You look at me and smile and I lean up and you lean in," his skin is hot. He presses the cold beer between his legs and tries not to wince. "You kiss me and it's how I said."

Jason's pinky tightens on Tim's and Tim breathes a bit easier. "It sounds beautiful."

Tim waits until his desire dissipates before he speaks again. When it has, he shifts the bottle back and stops squeezing the shit out of Jason's finger. He shifts to having their index fingers hooked around one another. "I want us to plan it and even if I fail... can we just... keep trying?"

"We can try as many times as you need."

Tim thinks that Jason must be a saint.


	34. Chapter 34

It's an entire week before Tim comes home from the corner store, bag of marshmallows Jason sent him for under his arm, to find the house smelling of cocoa and a cinnamon twinge beneath it that means Jason's actually _made_ eggnog. Tim hasn't had real homemade eggnog in years. He smiles as he hangs up his coat and ditches his shoes. He clutches the marshmallow bag to his chest as he picks his way through the house and plops on the couch beside where Jason's already put out two mugs of cocoa and two glasses of eggnog. Tim almost beams at the thoughtfulness of it. He realizes he never said who was drinking what, so Jason's left it open-ended.

Tim scoots closer to Jason's side and rips a hole in the bag of marshmallows, pulling out a fluffy sugary cylinder and stuffing it in his mouth. He offers one to Jason, who plucks it from his fingertips with his teeth, very careful not to graze him. There's a smile that Tim has issues containing pulling at his lips. He puts one in each mug and stuffs the bag off to the side Jason isn't sitting on, pulls his mug off the table and curls up against Jason's side.

There's a movie already on the television, something silly and Tim suspects, completely G rated. It's on low enough he doesn't really pay it any mind other than letting his eyes drift to the screen. It qualifies as _quiet_ while still providing distraction beyond anything else. Tim smiles, settles his head on Jason's bicep and brings his mug up, letting his eyes close as he just smells the cocoa. He can tell it's not the store bought packets he's had in his shelves since three apartments ago. It doesn't smell like sugar and some fragile hint of chocolate. Rather it smells like chocolate and warm milk. He takes a tiny sip, finds it warm but not scalding, rich and luscious, and he hums his approval. 

Jason gently moves his arm and Tim leans up for the few seconds required for Jason to stretch his arm along the back of the couch. He leans back against Jason, this time nuzzling into his side more fully. It feels like satisfaction and it feels like the romance Tim always envisioned. 

He takes stock of himself. His pulse isn't elevated, his breathing is fine, his pants aren't tight, and he doesn't feel like something's crawling under his skin. He's okay for now.

He takes his time, alternates between closing his eyes and just feeling Jason's closeness and opening them to peer at the television, and he drinks his cocoa all the way to the bottom.

Jason is gentle as he takes Tim's cup and sets it on the side table so neither of them have to move. Tim snuggles in just a bit more, whispers, "I'm cold," even though he isn't, because he wants Jason's arm around him now and he methodically recalls what he's told him. 

It doesn't take more than that for Jason to move his arm the few required inches, to settle it around Tim's shoulders, his hand lightly on his bicep. Tim feels his heartrate spike, but he doesn't feel panicked, just _alive_. He shifts to put one hand on Jason's chest, gently fists his hand in the soft fabric of his long-sleeve pullover and rubs his cheek against him. This feels... _safe_. 

Tim commits this to memory. He breathes and Jason lightly rubs his arm.

Tim's heart tries to jam itself in his throat when he shifts, tips his head up and parts his lips. He has to get this out. He has to say Jason's name. It's part of the agreement. He feels dizzy. He holds Jason's shirt tighter in his fist, lets his eyelashes hood his eyes, chooses not to fully close them, and whispers, "Jason."

Jason's hand pauses, hesitates, and then goes back to the gentle soothing motion against his arm. Jason shifts just enough to lean down and he pauses just shy of Tim's lips, lets their breath mingle until Tim can't stand it another second. He stretches up to close the distance, feels the slightest hint of Jason's lips against his own. It feels like calmness and warmth, it feels less like a static charge than Tim thought it might. It's better this way than how he'd imagined it. 

He doesn't panic. 

Jason ends the kiss, remains so close Tim wishes he'd never leave, and then initiates their next little kiss. It's tiny and lives the shortest life between them. Tim follows, seals their lips more fully together and just like that _he wants_. Fire touches his veins and the searing hands of his arousal try to take hold. Tim whimpers, forces himself to pull back, to tuck himself against Jason's chest again and he sits there shivering from something that isn't cold until it's all burned from his veins.

For his part, Jason never lets go. He doesn't move and Tim's thankful he doesn't try to retreat in the sort of way Tim would usually require. It's like Jason just knows what he needs. 

Tim _wants_ to be able to use this as his comfortable space. He wants to live in a world where Jason's arms are his safety net. Where he knows he'll be caught if he starts to fall.

He stops shaking eventually.

Once he's relaxed, only gently holding onto Jason's shirt, Jason moves just enough to retrieve his cocoa and start drinking it. Tim eyes the eggnog and eventually reaches out to grasp the glass, holds it close and sips it. He never lets go of Jason and Jason never lets go of him.

Tim thinks this is as close to perfect as he's bound to get.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like these lyrics from Shinedown describe a lot about Jason and Tim.  
>  _I'll follow you down to the eye of the storm  
>  Don't worry I'll keep you warm  
> I'll follow you down while we are passing through space  
> I don't care if we fall from grace  
> I'll follow you down to where forever lies  
> Without a doubt I'm on your side  
> There is nowhere else I'd rather be_

It takes two more times before Tim can make it through three whole kisses without panic edging up into his throat and trying to take over. When it does happen, Tim feels like he's on cloud nine. He only ends the last kiss because he doesn't want to ruin it by losing his cool. He lingers in Jason's space, breathing his air, smelling everything that _is_ Jason and he feels like there's something growing in his heart, something bigger than was there before. 

When he rests his head back on Jason's chest, he doesn't want to let go. Not then, not ever again. 

By the time Jason turns off the television, Tim's still not ready to leave Jason's orbit. He can't really say it, but he doesn't want him to go anywhere. 

All the same, he lets Jason up when he shifts to stand up, watches him stretch, and finds himself feeling foolish as he draws himself up on his knees to watch over the back of the couch as Jason pads into the bathroom and closes the door. Tim rests his head on the back of the sofa and tries not to nap.

He knows there's a potential, it's only a fleeting feeling, but he doesn't want to be alone tonight.

He watches Jason leave the bathroom, smiles when Jason gives him an affectionate look. He doesn't say what he wants.

He tells himself it's just a want, not a need.

Tim reminds himself that Jason would never begrudge him something if he wanted it. 

He also feels selfish tonight.

It takes an act of congress to get up off the couch and drag himself to the bathroom, relieve himself, and brush his teeth. It takes even more to dig his pajama pants and the big shirt he's been using out of the nest of blankets on his unmade bed. 

He's basically asleep on his feet, teetering where he stands. His heart aches and he rubs a hand over the area, a small frown on his face. He feels forlorn; feels like he wants to burst into tears. 

He wants Jason.

It takes the first tears streaking down his cheeks for him to admit it's more of a need than a want. He doesn't understand how he still feels like this when he's been beside Jason all evening.

He grabs a blanket and a pillow and makes his way across the hall, pauses at the closed door and steadies himself, listens quietly for a moment to ensure everything's quiet in Jason's room before he knocks.

He hears the light click on and the shuffle of footsteps and then the door eases open and Tim stares at the too-tight shirt Jason wears. He recognizes it and he wants to bury his face in Jason's chest and never come back up. _Jason's wearing his shirt._

Tim stands there, lost and awash in emotions he's having a hard time dealing with, and it's not until Jason's hand gently touches his shoulder that he remembers he's here to ask a question. He sniffs once and stares at the floor to Jason's right. It's a lot to ask, he knows this.

"I... would it be okay... if... if I come in?" He decides it'll be okay if he's even allowed in. He'll sleep on the floor if he needs to. He just needs to see Jason, that's all.

He knows he's lying to himself.

Jason's thumb strokes over his shoulder and then he lets go and steps back, opens the door all the way and gestures Tim in. "You're always welcome in here. Just knock, give it a ten count, and come in, okay?"

Tim nods. He won't do it like that, but he appreciates the trust that Jason places in him. He closes the door behind himself and hesitates there, scanning the floor for a good spot. He hears Jason settle on the bed and he hurries to the floor on Jason's side of the bed, starts trying to make as much of a nest as he can out of one blanket and a single pillow.

Jason clears his throat and Tim looks up, his eyes wider than they should be, fear lodged in his throat that he's in the way. "You can sleep up here if you want. It's completely up to you, just want to put that on the table. I'm not Dickie-bird, I don't octopus in my sleep."

Tim wants to cry he's so relieved. He gathers his stuff and hurries around the bed, blinking his tears back, and crawls up on the bed, feeling so vulnerable it's pathetic. Jason's pulled the sheets back completely and Tim realizes he's going to be under the covers with Jason and he thinks it's the strangest thing when that feels like a huge weight is lifted off of him. 

Jason lies down and turns off the light. Tim shuffles in close, longs to be closer. He shivers despite not being cold. He knows this feeling intimately, has known far too many nights on the other side of it, sobbing in his pillow and just wishing someone would hug him. Wishing he could _let_ someone hug him. These are the nights that usually ended in him desperately trying to hook up on Tinder just to feel someone near him. These nights have always been his failures.

He reaches for Jason and prays he won't be pushed away. 

Jason slides an arm around him and Tim curls up, pillowing his head on Jason's chest, clings to him like if he lets go, he'll die. He's not entirely sure he won't.

He buries his face against Jason's chest and blinks out the tears that have lodged their traitorous selves along his eye line. He rubs his face over the fabric of his shirt and he marvels that Jason took _his_ shirt to sleep in. He feels loved and he feels safe. 

Jason's hand strokes over his back.

It takes him a while, but eventually Tim finds his voice, manages his fragile truth. "I get like this sometimes... like I need to be touched or I'll die."

Jason nuzzles against the crown of his head and Tim can hear the hitch in his breath. "Touch starvation. I've been there." There's hesitation and then, "After I died... before the pit gave me back any of my memories, there were nights where all I could do was cry. It took me months to figure out it was because I'd come back alone, had been alone the whole time, and was still alone. Not a single touch from even a stranger passing me change. No one wants to touch the homeless guy, you know?"

Tim's heart breaks. He tightens his arm against Jason, rubs his face harder against his shirt. He loves Jason and he'd give anything for him. He'd give the damn world to take that pain from Jason. 

It occurs to him that maybe Jason feels the same way.

"You'll never be alone again," he whispers. He means it with his entire being. He'll never leave Jason. 

He doesn't want to leave his orbit either. 

Jason draws the covers up over them with his free hand and Tim settles in, content and feeling like he's on top of the world. He listens to Jason's heartbeat and he thinks to himself how damn lucky he is. 

Tim knows he's in love and he knows that it's one thing in his life that isn't going to change.


	36. Chapter 36

Tim thinks to himself that perhaps this is what normal people do instead of brave half-touches and emotional landmines. He surveys the disaster he and Jason have created of every countertop within the kitchen. Flour and egg yolk, milk, sugar... hell, there's bacon grease smeared across the stove and something sticky on the handle to the fridge. 

Surely, if Alfred were here, he'd have something very stern to say. 

Tim smiles to himself, wipes his hands across his pants, leaves white smears across the black denim. Something about trying to cook with Jason is therapeutic. Hell, he's discovered in the past few days that most things involving Jason are like the most exquisite therapy exercises ever made. Just playing a video game becomes something more, sitting by his side while Jason reads a paperback and Tim skims work reports on his tablet becomes calming. 

Tim thinks, together they can do anything. He's not sure how long he can keep that particular thought inside his head rather than letting it free to the air. 

The oven beeps and Jason rushes past him with the casserole dish full of what Tim is certain is going to be either epic failure or incredible brilliance. There's zero hope for anything in between with all they've put in there. 

Jason sets the timer and steps back to make a face at their mess. Tim waits to see what he's going to do. Jason stares at the ceiling, closes his eyes, mouths something Tim doesn't quite catch, and then opens them and leans down to open the cabinet under the sink, revealing all of their cleaning supplies.

It makes Tim want to laugh. He smiles instead and moves in to help, accepting a spray bottle and some wadded up paper towels and Jason's vague gesture toward the island behind them. 

Tim settles on cleaning sections of it at a time, dividing it into five sections and slowly starting through the task, ensuring the crumbs and dust don't end up on the floor and create a new problem to deal with. His mind sinks into the task and he finds himself thankful he gets to do things like this with Jason. It's domestic and, really, it's nice. It makes him remember that this is _their_ place, not Jason's and not Tim's. It's where they belong in the world and it feels like something significant when he thinks about it that way. 

He finishes cleaning the counter in time for his phone to start ringing and he rolls his eyes, putting the spray bottle down and pulling the offending device from his pocket, checking the contact out of habit before answering.

He doesn't even get to say anything before Dick's voice comes across the line. "Hey." He sounds sort of somber, maybe a little sad and Tim's smile fades as he leans his hip against the counter and thinks to himself that this is what he does to people. He makes them sad to even call him.

Jason's fingers gently tap his chin and Tim looks up into his eyes, realizes he's not listening to Dick and there are tears in his eyes. He blinks them away and Jason extracts the phone from Tim's grip, glances at the name and punches speaker phone on. He clears his throat. "Dickie... I'm going to mute you for a moment, Tim will be right back."

He hits the mute button and puts the phone on the counter, brackets Tim in against the counter and Tim just sags there. He doesn't feel trapped or like he's too close. His mind tell him that Jason is safety now.

"What happened?"

Tim blinks up at him and sniffs, folds his arms across his chest and tries to curl in on himself despite the small space. "I made him sad." He's not sure why he's sharing, he doesn't know why when Jason asks him things the truth just pours out now. He thinks, maybe, it's trust. 

A quieter voice tries to tell him it's foolishness. Tim does his best to ignore that voice. 

Jason's fingers lightly touch under his chin again, the touch fleeting, but enough to make Tim look up at him. "You've only said 'hey' so far. There's no way you made him upset that fast. You've done nothing wrong. If he sounds sad, maybe it's because something else happened. Or because he realizes it's been a _long damn time_ since he bothered to call and he doesn't actually know I'm here and maybe he feels like a fuckin' heel. Or maybe he got ketchup on his favorite white shirt or..." Jason drifts off and gives him a lopsided little smile. "See my point?"

Tim nods. He does, really, he does. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Why does it take me back so easily?"

"No one ever gave you healthy coping mechanisms... your brain is wired differently... or, ya know, because the fucking voices in our damn heads are our worst enemies." The look Jason sends him is haunted for a moment, but Tim watches as it clears. "You just have to learn when to ignore them and when to pay attention. It's a lot of work." He taps Tim's chin again. "It's worth it." He leans in and hesitates just shy of his lips. Tim leans in to complete the gentle little kiss, lets Jason deepen it just a touch, and nearly follows him when Jason pulls back and hands him his phone again. "Now talk to Dick without the all-consuming guilt."

Tim takes the phone off mute and offers a quiet, "I had a moment, sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about." Dick clears his throat. "Speaking of moments though... are you okay? I mean... I haven't called or come by in a while and... and I feel like I haven't been doing my part in this and I just wanted to actually check on you."

Tim lifts his gaze to where Jason is clearly trying to avoid listening and also obviously failing if the little clench in his jaw is any indication. Jason's mad on his behalf. He goes over Jason's words again in his mind. He thinks Dick should have called a while ago. Tim... Tim hadn't noticed.

He turns to lean on the counter, ditching the phone on the surface and resting his head on his arms, closing his eyes. "It's been... bumpy." That's perhaps an understatement. He thinks it's been far more than _bumpy_. The word hellish comes to mind. He sighs. "Jason's been here for me though. It's like we found each other and saved one another." He doesn't mean to say it, especially doesn't mean to say it when Jason's right behind him. He hears Jason go still and he slowly pushes himself up and turns his head, almost afraid to see how Jason's responding to his words.

He doesn't expect the completely enamored look on Jason's face. Once he sees it, he _does_ expect Jason's arm around his middle and his head lightly on his shoulder. He even expects the whisper of, "I'll let you save me every day and I'll always be here to save you in return." He turns his head for another tiny peck and he's so proud of himself that he's not losing it right now. 

Jason lets him go and continues cleaning and Tim realizes Dick's been talking the whole time. 

"-not be there for you. Things have gotten really hectic over here and I guess I just got lost in myself. It's not a good excuse... it shouldn't even be an excuse, I just-"

Tim sighs louder this time, leans back on the counter and closes his eyes again. "Calm the fuck down, Dick. I'm not dead." He doesn't say _yet_. He tries desperately not to think the word either. "Apology accepted and just... we should go to dinner or something. Somewhere quiet and uh..." he hesitates, winces, opens his eyes and stares at the wall, "not anywhere I've been before, okay?" He doesn’t want to risk anything that tips him back over the edge again. Not when he's still so close to it. Let him crawl back from the edge a bit further before presenting him with the world full of bullshit he's created.

"It's a date!"

Tim makes a face, looks up to find Jason trying not to laugh. He looks him dead in the eyes as he breathes out, "Thanks, I'm only dating one of you guys. Let's stick to 'not a date'."

He hears Dick sputter and then before the barrage of questions hits, Tim reaches out and hangs up the phone, stares right up into Jason's surprised face, and gives him a timid little smile. "Is that okay? That I told him?"

"It's wonderful." Jason leans on the counter, props his chin in his hand and gives Tim the full-wattage of his smile and Tim feels like if Dick ever knew what this looked like, he'd be very upset about losing his title.

He expects it when Jason reaches for his hand, hooks their index fingers, and guides him from the too-hot kitchen to their couch. They settle and Tim leans into Jason's side, listens to his phone ringing on the kitchen counter, and presses his fist to his mouth to smother the huge grin that's trying to get out. 

At least one thing in his life can be perfect. 

He _does_ ignore the voice that tells him he knows it won't last.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Look what the lovely youcantsaymylastname did for me! It's glorious!

The candle on the table between Tim and Dick flickers as the heater kicks on somewhere above them. Dick stifles a yawn and looks embarrassed by it, his gaze flicking across the table to Tim and then away toward wherever the waiter has gone for the past twenty minutes. Tim presumes Dick really wants his soda. It's rare he orders one - or at least it used to be when Tim hung out with Dick more often and he assumes that's still the case - and it usually means he's incredibly tired but doesn't want the wired effect coffee tends to have on him.

Tim switches the placement of his fork and spoon and wonders if silence has always been this... strained. It's not quite awkward, he doesn't want to run from it, but it's not exactly an extended silence with Jason either. He smooths his napkin over his thigh and blinks at the table cloth, thinking of how he'd asked Jason if he wanted to go and Jason had just given him a strained little smile and shook his head. 

In a way, Tim gets it. Things still aren't what they could be between Jason and the rest of the family and while that's a thing to be worked on at some point, it also isn't anywhere near the top of Jason's priority list. In another way, it frustrates Tim that Dick hasn't tried to reach out to Jason nearly at all in the past few years. He knows he tried when things were hellishly bad for Jason, but not really since then. 

Tim doesn't think those times should count against Jason. Or at least, they aren't counting toward any track record he keeps any longer. 

He looks up to find Dick watching him, knows the curiosity in his eyes, sighs and puts his hands on the table. "Just ask."

Dick has the grace to look embarrassed, but leans in, as if he's somehow being conspiratorial about what's coming. "So you and Jason...?"

Tim snorts. He doesn't mean to, per say, but it happens. He hides his instant grin behind his hand and bites his lip until it stops. He composes himself, clears his throat, and tries to play it off a bit. "Yeah, it just kind of happened. It's... it's really good for both of us." If that's downplaying it, he's not sure he wants to know what he'd have said if he was trying to be blunt.

"I'm glad. I'm happy someone was there for you," he senses the fall before Dick's face can even take on a frown and he forces himself to allow a smile onto his face for Dick's benefit. 

"He has been. And I've been there for him and I think it helps both us, having someone to focus on besides ourselves that _really_ needs us, you know? I mean, not that," he gestures toward the street on the other side of the window, "Gotham doesn't need us, but..." he trails off, realizes he means this more than he thought and takes a deep breath before offering, "we needed to focus on ourselves and one another first or we're both going to be useless out there."

He senses the waiter approaching and he picks up the complimentary water and takes a sip to cover the pause in the conversation as they receive bread, Dick's soda, and an iced tea for himself. The waiter leaves again without comment and Tim resists the urge to roll his eyes. Dick decided this was a great place to try and all the things on the menu were too expensive to even have a damn price tag on them... and this is the service attached. Tim thinks perhaps this guy's done with his job for all the fucks he seems to give about the fact that the bill alone will be over three figures and that the tip will be an automatic twenty percent. He's seen how much these places pay staff in comparison to regular restaurants. It's a nearly livable wage by itself instead of the measly dollar and change per hour other places give their servers, plus all the mandatory tips on every bill that actually go to the waiters and not the establishment. 

Tim sighs, thinks about all the things he wishes he could change, all the people starving for no reason when some horrible company could just be paying them for the forty plus hours they work in a week. He sets his glass down and he realizes something he never has before. There's power in who they are out there in the night and if he used it to apply in all the right places, it _could_ be another kind of power entirely. Appropriately distributed to CEOs and stingy higher ups, he could effectively become Robin Hood instead of Red Robin.

He almost snorts his drink as he thinks that if he and Jason teamed up and took the Red's off their names, they technically _could_ be Robin Hood. He puts his glass on the table and sniffs to keep water from coming out of his nose, hides his grin behind his hand, and desperately tries not to laugh. He's going to have to remember to tell Jason that one. He wants to watch Jason flop over like Tim's killed him and groan from how bad the joke is. 

He hums, leans on his hand, and looks up to see Dick watching him, a certain light in his eyes. "Thinking about him?"

Tim just lets the smile remain this time. "Yeah." It's... it's so obvious and he just doesn't care that it is. Jason is like some kind of beacon in his life, out there saving his damn life and helping him _live_ again. He just hopes he's helping Jason live, too.

The waiter comes back, this time with Dick's salmon and Tim's special of the night, which turns out to be prime rib. He disappears again without a word and Tim shrugs it off and starts cutting his food into manageable bits. 

It's a while before they talk again and when they do, Dick asks him if he's planning on going back to college and Tim tells him he thinks he'll let it go for the time being. They move on fairly quickly, go over a few things on the table for Wayne Enterprises that Tim's actually managed to stay on top of - at least the parts they can say in public - and move on to veiled references of if Tim's going to work his night job or if he's moved on from that, too. 

Dick makes it clear it's okay if Tim's given it up, but they'll be happy if he comes back, too.

Tim considers it quietly for a while, chewing his food and generally weighing his options. He thinks of him and Jason out on patrol, he thinks of the pressure Jason's willing to apply and the lines Tim has walked in the past, and he envisions the different kind of good they could do. He smiles and murmurs, "I think if Jason's game to change things up a bit, I'd like to try. It'll be different than before though." He doesn't say it, but it's an implication on the air that he won't be an ex-Robin, that he's casting off the title just as much as Jason has if he goes back out. 

He sees the smile on Dick's face, the welcome gleam in his eyes, and Tim shrugs away the whisper of doubt in his mind. It's been time for change for years. It won't be the whole answer, but he thinks it could be some of it. 

Just as Jason's been part of the answer.

Just as the meds and the trust have been and always will be.


	38. Chapter 38

Tim leans against the counter and stares at the mug in the microwave. It's spinning round and round and there's nothing but a bare inch of water in the bottom of it. He listened to the steady hum of the fan and he closes his eyes, reaches up and pushes his hand through his hair. 

There's an underlying static in his veins today that whispers he needs to hurt, but there's a desire curling in his stomach that pleads with him not to do it. He feels the same way he did when he first jumped off Gotham's rooftops and had to trust in one of Bruce's lines to catch him. It's a precipice and he has two choices. 

Do it or don't.

He walks away as the microwave beeps, goes to stand by Jason's bedroom door, knocks and waits. He hears a groggy noise that sounds suspiciously like, "Come in," and he tries not to let his hands shake as he opens the door and steps inside. He goes to stand at the foot of Jason's bed, fidgets with his own fingers for a lack of anything better to do, and debates how best to say what he needs to.

He tips his head back and stares up at the ceiling until the words pry themselves from his throat and claw their way out of his mouth into the open air. "I want to hurt today, but I don't want to do it."

Belatedly, he realizes how that sounds and he winces. "I'm not asking you to hurt me. I'm asking you to stop me."

The bed creaks and he chances a look at Jason, sees he's sat up, the covers pooled in his lap, tucked in around his sides, and a quick glance shares the information that Jason's underwear have been discarded beside the bed. Tim marvels at the fact that he doesn't panic over this piece of information. He shifts, turns away to go stand next to the window, moves the edge of the curtain back to peer outside, gives Jason the privacy to rectify the situation if he so chooses. 

He listens to the shuffle of the covers and then Jason's feet on the floor, a stifled yawn, and then Jason sliding back into bed. When he looks back, Jason's stretched out on his side. He catches his gaze and Jason tips his head toward the bed, ever silent.

Tim moves across the room, slides onto the bed, and lays down next to him. He stretches out on his side and lets his toes touch Jason's. "I put a mug in the microwave." He hesitates and then closes his eyes and whispers, "But I didn't take it out. I came in here instead."

Jason hums softly. "It would seem you've already stopped yourself." 

Tim opens his eyes, stares at a spot on the bed between them, takes in a shaky breath and sighs it back out. "I'm not sure I can keep stopping it today."

"Then I'm here." Jason's hand slides into his vision and Tim reaches for it, pauses, and then places his whole hand over Jason's. It only takes a few moments for him to lean in toward Jason and slowly melt in against his side. He pillows his head on Jason's chest and gently pulls Jason's arm over his waist and rests his hand on his forearm, keeping him there. He feels something like excitement stir in his veins and he knows he's taking a chance here. But he also knows Jason hasn't ever made a move on him without Tim doing all the work to let him know what he wants with at least his actions if not his words. He knows he can trust that it'll stay like this; that it won't go further until some fragile point in the future when he says it does.

He relaxes.

"Just keep helping me make the choice to walk away today."

"I will provide you the means to re-make the decision, as I always do. If I take away your autonomy on it, the part you that wants to hurt will try to make me hurt you. It's not conscious, but it's kind of a known quantity. Our minds are like children. If we can't get our way we'll eventually lash out at the person preventing it." Jason's fingers lightly press and then release.

Tim nods, turns to burrow his nose against Jason's shirt, smells himself there and finally takes a look at the shirt. It's one of his own from last week. He remembers wearing it to the gym and he also remembers leaving it on the counter in the bathroom. He hides a small smile against Jason's ribcage.

He's not about to call Jason out on this. If he's honest, he's half afraid he'll stop if he says anything and he thinks it's pretty flattering. His toes curl at the fragmented thought of what Jason had probably been doing last night that resulted in wearing Tim's shirt and his underwear being discarded on the floor. His heart tries to beat out of his chest and it takes naming the capitals of every state in quick succession to back him up from his mental ledge. 

Tim _wants_ to think about Jason like that. He wants it like he wants air to breathe. He just knows that's still somewhere in a nebulous future, at best. He reminds himself Jason's coping as best he can, too. It eases something inside him and he feels his shoulders sag with released tension. He rubs his cheek on Jason's chest and redirects his mind and their topic at the same time.

"I got to thinking the other night when I was at dinner with Dick; sort of thought maybe it's time we got back out there at night. I mean, not how we used to. I thought," he hesitates, debates how best to put it, and then rushes ahead regardless. "I thought we could change things up, sort of take on a new aspect of things. We have a certain power because of who we are, right? We always apply our pressure with our fists, but... what if we didn't have to. What if we take on corruption and injustice from another angle."

Jason's fingers lightly pluck at Tim's sweater, rub the fabric together, release, and then repeat. "I've thought about it before. You're talking about things like instead of taking on the street criminals or Arkham's parade of bullshit, that we set our sights on corrupt CEOs or shitty managers or the people who don't pay a living wage to their employees. The people who create the breeding ground for the toxic cesspool of crap that is Gotham, right?"

Tim rests his cheek against Jason's chest and listens to his heartbeat. "Yeah, precisely that." It's amazing how on the same page they are. "I feel like we could do something more that way. A new angle and maybe something better in the long run than simply fighting what's already turned sour."

Jason's nose presses against his hair and Tim feels the breath of a kiss that doesn’t make contact there. He closes his eyes and enjoys the touch, the whisper of affection.

"How much pressure are we applying, exactly?"

"We start with words and we ramp up from there depending on responsiveness."

"And at what point do we stop the pressure?"

Tim shrugs a little. "I've done things, Jason... things even I can't remember, but some of the things I can... I've walked the same line as you used to every night. I'm no saint. Neither are these men and women. While I suspect most of them will ease before we find any of those lines Bruce refuses to cross, a few may require more... advanced tactics."

Jason snorts. "And you're willing to... allow those tactics to happen?"

"I'm willing to _employ_ those tactics if need be." Tim shifts, leans up, and peers up into Jason's eyes. "Whatever we do, we do together."

He feels the warmth of Jason's smile before he sees it and when he catches sight of it, it's blinding in its brilliance. He links their hands and he leans up, tilts his face _just so_ and when Jason's lips whisper over his own, Tim knows it's an agreement of sorts. He's on Jason's side and Jason's on his. 

His fingers itch, but now they itch for something other than his own pain. His heart hurts, but it hurts with the searing light that is Jason's love. His mind's always going to be a mess, but he's _Jason's_ mess. 

He smiles into the kiss and he _knows_ he's made all the right choices in life if they've brought him here.


	39. Chapter 39

There's wind on his face and a chill in his bones. It's settled deep enough to ache, but it doesn't bother him quite like it once did. The forecast said there's a possibility of snow tonight though Tim has never placed much faith in the newscasters around here. 

He thinks of all the talking he and Jason did before this night came to fruition. He recalls in vivid detail the way they hashed out what they were becoming, the focus in Jason's gaze, the vitality in his eyes. Tim realizes now how much being out here means to Jason, just how much being _Robin_ had once meant. What it had stood for when Jason had worn the R and the colors. 

Tim thinks he understands why he had once been _Replacement_. He's long since forgiven the hurled insult, thinks nothing much of the whole ordeal now that he's presented with who Jason has become versus who he had been at the time. If he digs deep, he can feel the answering pain in his own exile from the Robin name. He remembers the bite and sting of Dick's choice of Damian over him. 

Time has allowed him to see the faith that was extended with the revocation of his title. Dick saw someone ready to be their own person. He made assumptions based upon his own past and he acted in the youngest's best interests. It used to make Tim feel like he couldn't breathe. Now it makes him feel like he's grateful in some small manner. 

He listens to the sound of Jason's breathing in his ear, lets the sound of it creep into his veins and soothe him of the cold's ache. He shifts forward, watches their target drinking placidly in a café down below. He leans back and methodically takes stock of their surroundings. Overall, it's quieter than he'd expected their first night back out here to be. He'd figured the short-handedness would have bled over somewhere and that it would have been here - so close to the slums - that it would have increased fastest. 

He brings up his virtual computer panel on his wrist and studies the routes of all the others over the past few months. Only one path veers through here. 

Tim smiles down at the screen, at what it means. It means Damian's been apologizing this whole time, trying to make things right with the things he does best. Leading the boardroom at Wayne Enterprises and cleaning the streets as Robin. He dismisses the screen and contemplates just how much his life has changed.

Mere months ago, he was hopeless, lost adrift in a sea that would have inevitably torn him apart no matter anyone's best intentions. 

Today he stands here with a new purpose, beside a man he calls his rock, his equal, his _love_. He's settled into place within Wayne Enterprises as the secondary instead of the lead, allowing Damian's far broader shoulders to take on the more stressful aspects while he's accepted Damian's old role as his own. They've never talked about it, not once, and Tim really doesn't intend to. No one has brought it up and Tim's happy where he is. 

He still hears the whispers of his anxiety telling him things are his fault, telling him things will fail. They're quieter and some days he can ignore them. Some days he can't. 

His depression and suicidal episodes will come and go, he's sure. The depression consistent and the episodes perhaps less frequent with a more consistent support system, but even if they aren't, he knows he can weather them now. It feels like less of a sure thing that he'll end up in the ground one day by his own hand. It tastes like maybe on the back of his tongue.

The notes all over the house help keep him focused. There're days he ignores them and copes in all the old ways. Jason never chastises him or does anything more than Tim needs him to. Tim knows he understands. He's seen it on Jason's face late at night when Tim wakes and Jason's been awake the entire night, pale and shaking. He knows that Jason understands that some things can never be undone. 

They aren't perfect, they haven't solved the damn world, but they've found one another. 

Tim thinks it could be enough.

He leans over the edge again and watches their target move too far back in the café to see any longer. They don't intend to make a scene with their properly applied pressure. Tonight won't be the night if the guy doesn't come out in the next hour. After all Red Hood and Red Robin can't linger on a rooftop that long without being noticed. 

Tim shifts away from the edge and stands up. He senses Jason behind him before his arms slide around Tim's waist and draw him in. He leans back against Jason's chest, feels him nuzzle into his hair, and he smiles. Some things are better than properly applied pressure at the exact time they've chosen. 

Leaning into his lover's warmth on a cold night, cape fluttering around his ankles, Jason's breath in his hair... Tim thinks he's found one of those things.

He knows he's not wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. All things must come to an end. I ♥ you all for all you've said and all you've done throughout. May your journeys be strong and your paths smoother.

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I deal with some pieces of what Tim's going through personally and that I was working through some shit with this story. I cannot handle anyone telling me I'm glorifying anything or that I'm not handling this appropriately. Tim's not okay. I'm trying to _be_ okay in my own way. This is my coping mechanism. Anything negative will create it no longer being said coping mechanism. I rarely ask this of anyone, but this story is deep in my gut. I ripped my soul out and turned it over to writing this. I implore you, please, if you don't like what's happening, don't like how I'm dealing with it, please just quietly walk away. 
> 
> All other comments welcome and cherished. ♥ I'd love to have some healthy discussions on this story, to know how it pulls at others and if it's as potent outwardly as it was for me inwardly.


End file.
